Pieces of Us
by Noxbait
Summary: Set S4, after Heaven and Hell. It's four days till Christmas and the boys find themselves paying a painful price for a failed hunt. Deep down, all either of them wanted was to have a quiet Christmas and try to pick up the pieces of their lives. A good first step would be Dean not bleeding out. And if Sam could actually move, well, that would be great too. Not a deathfic. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I absolutely can NOT believe it is almost Christmas. I have my shopping all done...but yet to wrap a single present! :) I'm not quite ready for this!**

 **Good news is, I'm ready for this story! I have done it, guys! I have a completed story to post! The last chapter is still getting finalized, but overall the story is finished! Plan is to post a chapter a day if all goes well. Huge, huge thank you to my wonderful beta, L.H. the Second! She is amazing folks and I so appreciate her help!**

 **This story is set after episode 4.10, Heaven and Hell. PS this is NOT a deathfic. :) I'll put warnings on that one, folks, and read at your own emotional risk lol! This one is heavy just due to what season I'm setting it in and the things the boys were dealing with at that time, but it does have a happy ending!**

* * *

 _ **Pieces of Us**_

 _December 21, 2008_  
 _10:49 pm_  
 _Two hours north of Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

It was only because their plans always went so beautifully smoothly that Dean wasn't at all surprised about their current situation. He rolled his eyes at his own sarcastic thought. And then regretted it when the motion made the room swim and his head throb double time. Groaning, Dean eased his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

If their current situation hadn't been so rotten, it would have been hysterical. Because it was four days till Christmas and they were trapped in the musty parlor of a house that was decidedly and frustratingly _not_ haunted. There was a piece of wood stabbing him in the left side and he'd hit his head hard enough that he was still seeing stars. Given the way he'd wound up in this mess, though-one wrong step on a rotted floorboard-it was almost funny. Might have been funny if he wasn't bleeding from at least three places and Sam wasn't lying on the floor crying.

Actually, legitimately crying.

 _Well maybe not crying,_ Dean mused. But moaning and groaning for sure. Dean swallowed hard, trying to control his breathing against the sharp pain running through his body. For the fifth time in as many minutes, he asked hoarsely, "How're you doing there, Sam?"

The only response he got was a half-laugh, half-sob that was 10% sarcasm and 90% pain. Looking over at Sam, Dean could easily see the awful pallor of Sam's face and the way his eyes were squeezed tightly closed. Dean prompted, "Sam?"

"What?" The first thing he'd said in five minutes.

"How's it going over there?"

Another half-sob, half-laugh, then Sam asked through gritted teeth, "How fast're you bleeding?"

It was a legitimate question. Dean could feel the warm, wet stickiness of blood on his side, just under his elbow, and, knowing it was probably the worst of his injuries, said, "Slow leak. Take your time."

Dean heard another groan.

The day had been rotten and gone downhill from there. The week had been the same and, come to think of it, the whole freakin' year had been crap. It would have seemed that after being brought back from hell _anything_ would be an improvement. But finding out your little brother had been shacking up with a demon had somewhat dulled Dean's enthusiasm for his return. The fact Sam was using his magic powers like he'd _promised_ he wouldn't was icing on the _Welcome Back from Hell!_ cake.

With the broken pieces of the house scattered over and around him, Dean couldn't help but feel like it was an appropriate illustration of their lives. A bunch of broken pieces. Broken hope. Broken trust.

Even as familiar anger quickly began to burn in his gut, Dean felt it fade just as quickly when he looked back at Sam.

Because it was very difficult to be angry with someone who was in too much pain to move.

Not that he could exactly move either, Dean thought, wishing he wasn't buried under the second floor of the house and being skewered with wooden shrapnel. _His_ reason for not being able to move had more to do with how he was wearing the upstairs bedroom. Sam wasn't moving because neither of them were quite sure he hadn't broken something important.

Like his back.

Dean listened to Sam's strained breathing and sighed. Sam had seriously screwed up his back in the fall and then his attempt to move some of the debris off of Dean's lap had resulted in him collapsing to the ground like he'd been hit by a truck. That had been about twenty minutes ago.

And he hadn't moved since.

"Not getting any better?" Dean asked, wishing he'd come up with a brilliant solution to their problem.

"No." Sam's reply was a choked off grunt.

"Dude, what the heck did you do?" Dean asked, concern escalating with every moment that Sam continued to lay there unmoving. "Are you sure nothing's broken?"

'No." Sam answered immediately, then added hesitantly, "I don't think so."

"Sam?" Dean cursed as he struggled yet again to get out from under the debris. No matter what he tried, he couldn't get loose. He needed… "Sam?"

"Still here-"

"Planning to stay long?"

"Got….somewhere to be?" Sam's voice was breathless and brittle.

"We had discussed raiding Bobby's pantry for the liquor and pie," Dean said, pushing against the board pinning his left leg to the ground. He heard Sam's humorless snort and tried to wiggle his arm. Nothing. Shifting the fraction of an inch required so he could see past the bed frame that was pressing against his left shoulder, Dean added, "Pie, Sam I wanted pie."

He didn't get a response and narrowed his eyes, squinting through the gloom. The room was frigid and Dean felt a chill run through him. Might have been the winter weather or the blood loss; might have been the fact that Sam's face, tilted toward him, was bone white and streaked with tears.

 _Maybe he_ had _been crying!_ Dean wasn't in the mood to tease him about it, though. He knew the pain had to be debilitating if Sam still wasn't moving.

"Sam, seriously. What are you thinking here?" Dean asked, wishing he could get a better look at his brother. "You don't think you broke anything, right? So what? Did you just twist it wrong and throw it out when you fell?"

"I think so." Sam muttered, his eyes sliding open. He rolled his head slightly, glanced at Dean and said, "Sorry."

Dean shook his head. "Not your fault. The house fell on both of us. I'm not exactly being very helpful here myself."

"Just give me a minute," Sam said softly.

"Take your time. We've got nowhere to be." Dean smiled wryly.

"Maybe a hospital." Sam snorted.

"That bad?"

"You're bleeding all over the place."

"Not _all_ over the place," Dean said, then amended his statement. "Just one spot. I can't exactly move here, you know."

"I know the feeling."

Dean hated being trapped more than almost anything else in the world and he was feeling trapped now. He was trapped and nothing he'd tried so far had even so much as budged the debris. Sam was free, but he was in too much pain to move. If he had tried, Dean doubted he could have come up with a more ridiculous situation. Even as terrible as things had been going - angels and demons shoving destiny and fate - at them at every turn, there had been a small part of him that had held out hope they might manage to have a decent Christmas.

 _So much for that. Should have known better._

His morose thoughts were interrupted by a sharp intake of breath and a pained groan. Dean frowned and asked, "What're you doing?"

"Not much." Sam laughed and, for once, it sounded genuine.

"What are you _trying_ to do?"

"Unbury you."

"To do that...well, you sort of need to be back over here picking up this crap that is sitting on me."

"I'm on my way-"

Dean laughed this time because it was so ridiculous. Sam hadn't so much as lifted a finger, let alone done anything else that would give any indication that he would _ever_ move again. Dean said, "At this rate, we're gonna die of old age before I die from shock."

Sam's head tilted more and his eyes were wide with concern as he asked, "Thought you weren't bleeding that much."

"It was a joke, slow poke," Dean said, wiggling his feet to try to restore some circulation. "Maybe you shouldn't try to move. What if you _did_ break something?"

 _What if he_ didn't _break something? What if..._ Dean forced the thought of paralysis away, swallowing hard against the nausea the unspoken fear brought with it.

"So what then? We just die of old age like you said?" Sam asked. He managed to shift his left hand without seeming to cause himself excruciating pain. "Because so far that's the only alternate plan that we have."

Dean stared at him, sensing the same helplessness that Sam obviously was feeling. He shook his head and started pushing against the boards again. If Sam couldn't move, then Dean was just going to have to dig himself out from under a house on his own.

* * *

Sam saw the resolution in Dean's eyes and recognized the exact moment that his brother made up his mind. Given the fact that he felt like one wrong breath would be enough to break him in half, Sam couldn't blame Dean. He stared up at the sky through the gaping hole where the upstairs had once been and cursed the day, the week, the month, and maybe his whole life as long as he was at it. It was four days till Christmas and, even if nothing was going right between them, he had actually been hoping they could just take a few days off and have a quiet Christmas.

Like the last one.

Sam slammed his eyes closed, not wanting to allow another tear to fall. The pain in his heart and soul was no less sharp and all-consuming than the pain in his back. Every single day he relived the moment Dean had died; felt the hopelessness and loss like a tangible thing. Even now that he had his brother back, Sam couldn't stop seeing Dean's shredded body every time he closed his eyes. Couldn't help waking up most nights, if he slept at all, breathless with fear that Dean wouldn't be in the other bed next to him; that it had all been a cruel dream.

A grunt of pain from Dean drew his attention back to the present and Sam glanced over at him. For all the determination in his eyes, it was obvious Dean wasn't accomplishing anything. Sam looked back up at the sky. This had been a simple case that had turned out not to be a case at all. They had laughed about it and been heading out of the un-haunted house when the rotted floorboards had given way and sent them to the first floor-without the benefit of using the stairs. He'd known immediately that something was wrong when he'd sat up and nearly passed out from the pain. Not being able to see his brother under the debris had motivated him through the agony and Sam had pushed himself to his feet, gritted his teeth, and started digging.

Dean had been unconscious at first and it took several panicked moments of calling his name before he had finally roused. Although bleeding from a cut over his eye and obviously more than a little disoriented from the smack on the head, Dean had been lucid. He'd also been pinned beneath the wreckage and reported, after some prodding, that yeah he probably was hurt more than he wanted to admit considering the piece of wood skewering him through the side. His admission that he was bleeding had spurred Sam's efforts to unbury his brother which had unfortunately led to his current predicament.

Knowing he'd already injured his back, Sam had tried to be cautious, but you could only be so cautious when trying to lift wooden beams off of your brother. And he'd been doing fine until one wrong twist and lift motion had sent him straight to the ground, nearly catatonic as the sharp pain tore through him. Dean had spent several minutes shouting at him before Sam could even muster the ability to speak through the haze of agony.

Even now, he could barely breathe without wanting to come out of his skin. He'd pulled muscles in his back before, strained his back digging up graves, but that had been nothing compared to the gripping pain he felt now. Every single twitch made him fear that he would never be able to move again.

Sam heard Dean cursing. Being trapped had clearly not limited Dean's considerable vocabulary. Despite the pain, Sam smiled. Dean might be buried and bleeding, but he would tear the whole house down with his teeth if he needed to in order to get them out.

"Dean."

"What?" Dean practically shouted. Obviously his patience had taken a beating, too.

Sam didn't reply, but took a deep breath and used whatever last shred of willpower he possessed to ignore the shattering pain in his back as he rolled onto his side.

Everything faded into nothingness except for the feeling of what seemed to be a gigantic vice clamping down on his lower back. Lightning ran up to his head and down his legs and he choked back the rising nausea. Throwing up was only going to make things worse. By the time the room started coming back into focus and the vice started to let up, he could hear Dean shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Sam!"

"Here," Sam said, just barely above a whisper. He might as well have been shouting because that one word had the power to quiet his brother's panic stricken calls.

"Sam?" Dean's voice went back to being soft, concerned.

"Yeah?"

"Seriously. Hold still will you? I don't want to end up hauling your butt to surgery because you broke your back in half."

Sam gritted his teeth. He already felt like one wrong move would snap his back in half; he didn't need to hear it from Dean, too. He could hear the frustration in Dean's voice and understood why Dean was feeling the way he was, but being an idiot about it wasn't going to help anything.

So he said, "Shut up."

Dean did, but Sam could hear him redoubling his efforts to get himself out from under the debris. He wasn't going to get far. Unclenching his fist and forcing his hand down against the floor, Sam tried to keep breathing as he levered himself upright into a half sitting position. More or less. It was only because he didn't want to pass out again in front of his brother that Sam's stubbornness prevented him from giving in to the warm blackness that overtook him as he sat up. Through the buzzing sound in his ears and the murky blackness he was swimming through, Sam could hear Dean's voice.

And it wasn't his annoyed tone of voice now, it was his _seriously worried_ tone.

It took a long time before Sam could see past the dark spots in his vision and pull Dean's face into focus. Dean was pale, sweaty, and Sam realized they needed to get out of this house _now_. Because Dean was obviously bleeding more than he was admitting. Swallowing back the ever rising nausea, Sam tried to sound fine, but sounded half dead even to himself when he whispered hoarsely, "Dean."

"Sammy? How you doing?" Dean sounded incredibly tired, his voice devoid of the earlier frustration.

Sam held very still, certain that a deep breath was going to break him in two. He tried to find something to say that would not increase Dean's worry. He finally asked, "D'you think Santa'll find us here?"

Dean's eyes went wide for a split second, then he laughed and leaned his head against the wall behind him and said, "I dunno, Sam. It's not like you've exactly been a good boy this year, is it? Sleeping with Ruby? Think that rates the naughty list."

And even though he could tell Dean was teasing him and not trying to start an argument, his words still stung. Badly. Sam chose to believe the tears that sprang to his eyes were due to the near crippling pain in his back and not from what Dean had said.

"Hey," Dean interrupted his thoughts.

Sam blinked to clear his vision and easily saw the regret in Dean's eyes. Sam inched up a little more and asked, "So does that mean sleeping with an angel gets you on the nice list?"

The regret instantly turned to disbelief. Dean sputtered for a moment, then asked, "How do you know about that?"

Keeping his left arm braced against his stomach while he drew his knees up in the hopes of eventually getting to his feet, Sam said, "You're not exactly subtle. You and Anna disappeared at the same time."

"So?"

"So what? You two just off playing Scrabble?"

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Dean smirked. "But no. It was Twister. Just like you and Ruby've been playing."

Feeling shaky all over and ill, Sam held Dean's gaze, trying to gauge his brother's mood. He asked, "Did you win?"

Dean laughed and some of the pain got just a little bit better. Sam smiled.

Dean said, "You bet I won."

He said it in the absolute dirtiest way possible and Sam groaned.

"Eww." Sam teased because it was the little brother thing to say and sometimes they both really needed that. He got to his hands and knees and crawled forward, whispering, "I think I lost."

"Yeah." Dean said softly, sounding weary beyond words and apologetic, not angry. "I think you did."

Sam looked up at him and, for the first time in a very long time, he felt like he had a big brother again.

* * *

Dean saw the surprise in Sam's eyes and hated it. How long had it been since he'd just acted like Sam's big brother and not his parole officer? Staring at Sam as he tried not to gasp in pain with each inch he crawled forward, Dean felt every bit of the stress and fury he'd been swallowing whole ever since he'd first discovered that his little brother had been keeping company with a demon.

Felt it and shoved it to the deepest recesses of his mind. Because it was nearly Christmas and he was alive and if they could just get out of this mess, maybe they could spend Christmas together and just be brothers again for a few hours at least. Maybe without angels or demons or anything in between. Giving up any attempt to move since all he was doing was digging that board deeper into his side, Dean tried to relax and do the one thing that lately had become the most difficult for him to do.

Trust Sam.

And somehow, watching him lever himself to his knees, one hand on the wall and one on Dean's right shoulder, it seemed so simple, so normal that it ached. Feeling his brother shaking as he gripped his shoulder for support, Dean said, "Maybe you should try to go for help."

"I'm not leaving you here." Sam shook his head, taking a deep breath.

Dean watched him struggling to get to his feet. As painful as it was to watch his stiff and awkward movements, Dean knew it felt ten times worse to Sam. Sweat was pouring down his face and Dean wasn't sure if he should be worried that Sam was going to throw up on him or if he was going to pass out. But he looked stubborn and dead set on what he was doing. Sighing, Dean knew there would be no reasoning with him at this point.

"Fine, but if you throw up on me, I will leave _you_ here," Dean muttered, glaring at Sam without any real heat.

"Not gonna throw up," Sam insisted, but he had to pause and lower his head for a minute, breathing very carefully.

Dean stared up at him and wished he had an umbrella. Or that his brother wasn't standing right above his head looking sick. Thumping his fist against Sam's ankle, Dean said, "I swear, Sam, if you puke on my head-"

"Shut up or so help me I'll kick your ass."

Dean snorted. "You _will_ need my help to kick my ass at the rate you're going there, grandpa."

"You really do want me to leave you here, don't you?" Sam asked, and Dean could just barely see the smirk; weak as it might have been.

"I don't exactly see you going anywhere fast. With me or without me." Dean tapped Sam's ankle again as he asked, "How're you doing being vertical again?"

"Ok." Sam said, not even trying to act like he was anything other than completely miserable.

"Alright, well just take it slow, ok?"

"Slow is the fastest I'm going to be able to move whether I like it or not," Sam muttered, shifting slightly and grabbing hold of some of the debris that was pressing down on Dean.

He had barely shifted anything and Dean was holding his breath. One wrong move and Sam would be back on the ground. A different wrong move and the pile of crap would probably crush _him_ where he sat. Dean felt some dust trickle down over his face and he squeezed his eyes closed, fighting the urge to sneeze. The way his ribs felt, to say nothing of the pressure from the stick in his side, sneezing would be a very bad thing to do. Sam tugged on something and Dean bit back a scream as something heavy suddenly pressed down into his left thigh.

Squeezing Sam's ankle, literally the only part of his brother he could reach with his arm pinned the way it was, Dean forced himself to be calm as he gasped, "Sam, stop. It's...it's on my leg."

"Sorry, sorry," Sam said quickly. He was moving something that Dean couldn't see, but a split second later the pressure was released and Dean's leg was no longer being crushed. Not only that, but he could actually move his entire leg for the first time. Sam's voice was strained as he asked, "Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Dean nodded, shaking his foot and trying to regain some sensation in his leg.

He looked up as Sam shoved something off to the side and pressure released on his left shoulder. Moving his left arm was both a relief and a pain. Because the movement of his arm only served to demonstrate how screwed up his left shoulder and side were. The piece of wood in his side was still there; probably a good thing given the fact he could feel the blood still slowly leaking down his side into his jeans. But now that the pressure was gone, Dean realized that there was something wrong with his shoulder. He didn't even need to glance at it to know it was dislocated. Again.

Hadn't even been that long since he'd popped it out of the socket jumping out of a window fleeing Alistair. Dean closed his eyes against the pain and the even more painful memory. Just as his thoughts started to travel that dark path, he realized Sam wasn't moving. At all. Looking up, Dean leaned his head back against the wall and saw that Sam was leaning against that very wall, breathing raggedly and looking completely spent.

"Sam?"

"Give me a minute," Sam whispered breathlessly, eyes closed, forehead against the wall.

"Take your time," Dean said and meant it.

He was feeling a little less claustrophobic now that he could move a bit. Gritting his teeth, he tried to see if he could get himself the rest of the way free, but he was still trapped. So he just tried to keep his left elbow pressed just above the wood that was spearing him and attempted to be patient even though patience wasn't a virtue he really associated with on a typical basis.

"Not sure-" Sam grunted, struggling with another piece of wood until it dropped with a heavy clunk to the ground, "if I can get...that piece-"

Dean didn't have to ask what he meant. "I can get this one. It's not even in that deep."

He glanced down at the offending piece of wood. It hurt like the dickens but it truly wouldn't be anything he couldn't deal with on his own. Once Sam got a bit more of the debris off him.

Looking back up Dean said, "You, my brother, aren't going to be leaning over for a good while into the future. Guess I'll be tying your shoes again like I did when you were two."

Sam laughed, even if it still sounded strained. "I don't need you to tie my shoes."

"Dude, you needed me to get yourself off the ground a minute ago."

"Did it myself," Sam insisted, sounding like a petulant two year old.

Dean rested his head on the wall and stared with unfocused eyes at the piece of wood in front of his face as he said, "Yeah. You did. But you needed my help."

"Dean," Sam whispered, his movements paused.

For a long moment they were completely silent. Dean didn't know where they went from here because Sam _had_ needed him and he hadn't been there and they were paying the heavy price of his absence every single day. The pain in his side and shoulder had nothing on the agonizing pain of knowing that Ruby had been able to step right up and manipulate his little brother into who knew what exactly because Dean hadn't been there and Sam had been so desperate to do something, _anything_ , to try to save him. And now they were so far apart standing side by side that he didn't know how to bridge that gap.

"Dean." Sam's voice was a little stronger.

"What?"

"Can...can you try sliding to the other side?"

"Maybe." Dean realized some of the pressure on his body had lessened. There was still the issue of the jagged board digging into his side. If he moved, he was going to have to pull that thing out and then who knew what kind of trouble he was going to be in. "I'm going to have to pull this out if I'm going to be able to go anywhere."

Sam's face tilted down and Dean could see the pain and concern. "How deep is it in?"

"Not that deep." Dean assured him. "Honestly. It hurts and I'm oozing but I'm not going to bleed out if I pull this splinter."

"More than a splinter."

"Ok, toothpick."

"It looks like a piece of the stair rail."

Dean scowled. Hearing that just made it hurt worse. He griped, "Seriously? No need to be so specific."

"Hurts more now, doesn't it?" It almost sounded like Sam was smiling.

 _Bastard._

"Of course it does, you sadist." Dean growled.

"Sorry." Sam apologized. He followed the statement up with a gentle nudge of his knee against Dean's good shoulder. He sounded out of breath when he added, "Dean? Can you...hurry?"

"Yeah." He heard the strain in Sam's voice.

Dean took a deep breath to steel himself against the pain. He wasn't looking forward to pulling a piece of wood out of his side, but he didn't have a choice. Especially when it sounded like Sam was about to fall over. Again. Gritting his teeth, Dean slid an inch to the right, realizing as he did that Sam was holding the debris up enough to allow him that movement. The inch shift was enough to allow him to lift his right arm and grab the piece of wood while he kept his left arm carefully pressed to his side in an attempt to keep the shoulder still. His left leg wasn't completely free yet, so he was limited in his mobility but managed to slide another inch to the right while he gripped the piece of wood then pulled it out. The thing came out easier and far less painfully than he'd expected, but even so it made his eyes water and he bit his lip to keep from shouting out in pain.

Once the dull roar in his ears had died down, Dean blinked away the darkness. "I'm ok."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He glanced down at his side, staring at the blood. It wasn't that bad. Dean looked up. "I'll keep."

Nodding, Sam said, "Ok, slide a bit more if you can."

Dean did and even managed not to shout when he jarred his shoulder. Reaching out with his right hand, Dean gripped a piece of what might have been a dresser and pulled himself out further. His left leg was still pinned, but already he could feel a bit of give, especially when Sam changed what he was pulling on and the board on his ankle lifted. Another painful moment and he was curled up on the floor, sweating despite the cool air and holding his dislocated shoulder tight to his chest. Dean heard a thud as some of the debris Sam had been holding hit the ground.

"Dean?" Sam asked, still standing straight up against the wall.

Looking up, Dean managed a shaky nod. "I'm ok. Give me a second."

Sam nodded, still leaning against the wall. At least he was still on his feet, Dean thought. One less Winchester brother to pick up off the floor.

"You going to be able to get up?" Sam sounded apologetic.

"Yeah," Dean said even though he couldn't quite find it in himself to move.

The blood was warm on his side, but the flow didn't seem to be increasing much with his movement, so he figured he wasn't going to bleed out anytime soon. Probably would need a few stitches. _And a tetanus shot_. He grimaced, shifting so he was lying on his right side. The only way he was going to get off the floor was if he could push himself up with his right arm. Because his left arm was out of commission and so was Sam. And it was the knowledge that Sam was standing there, willing but unable to even reach down and offer a hand to help him up, that spurred Dean to movement. It seemed to take a lot longer than it probably should have, and it hurt every bit as much as he expected it to, but he finally joined his brother in leaning up against the wall.

Shoulder and side throbbing, Dean swallowed against the bone dry lump in his throat and rasped, "Need a drink."

"You make it to the car and I'll buy you one." Sam's voice wasn't any stronger.

"Huh." Dean raised an eyebrow, studying his brother. Sam looked so tense that it made _Dean_ physically hurt for him.

"I could go for a drink, too," Sam said wearily.

Dean waved a hand toward the door. "Let's go get the good drugs. Merry stoned Christmas to us."

Sam sighed but nodded and Dean held his breath as he took a slow step forward. With the wreckage all around, it was like an obstacle course to get out of the house and Dean had a hard enough time given the pain from his shoulder and side and the unsteadiness that came from the knock on the head. But he found it a breeze to get through compared to Sam. Standing at the front door, Dean waited as patiently as he could for Sam to catch up. As he'd walked, he'd been kicking pieces of wood and broken glass out of the way for Sam. It had been a good thing, too, because his brother could barely move in anything but a halting shuffle. Last thing they needed was for Sam to trip.

"A few steps and you're golden." Dean leaned against the doorframe and cast a longing glance down at the Impala. So close yet so far.

"Keys," Sam said breathlessly, inching forward until he was standing next to Dean.

"Ha." Dean shook his head, going down two of the front steps.

He hesitated there, looking back at Sam. Sweat was dripping down Sam's face despite the cold night air, and the extremely guarded way he was breathing told Dean exactly how much he was hurting. A gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach had Dean almost taking those two steps back up in order to give his brother a hand. He certainly looked like he needed it as he cringed and gasped, taking the first step awkwardly; his knuckles white as he clung to the rickety railing. Not that long ago, Dean would never have left him to cross the room by himself, let alone try to get down a set of steps with what was probably a sprained back.

But Dean was angry and hurt and scared and more lost than he'd been in years; he felt every single inch of the painful divide that had sprung up between them and he couldn't move. He just watched Sam struggling and then turned and walked down the last two steps.

"Dean."

"What?" Dean didn't turn, kept his left arm cradled close to his chest. His head had been hurting all along, but now it was crossing the line from annoying to downright agonizing.

"Keys," Sam repeated, his voice louder and more determined than it had been a moment ago.

Dean turned around. Somewhat surprised that Sam had made it down the last two steps as quickly as he had, Dean saw Sam had his hand out and he shook his head. "You have to be kidding me. You're not driving."

"Well, you're not driving either." Sam's voice rose another decibel. "You've probably got a concussion. In case you didn't realize it, your face is covered in blood and I can see how much that hole in your side has been bleeding. You're lucky you haven't passed out yet."

Dean took a quick glance at his side and realized that Sam probably had a point given the way his jeans were soaked with blood. And he couldn't see his face, but he could feel the throbbing headache and a quick touch of his face left his fingers tacky and red. He lowered his hand and glared. "I'll be fine. You're the one who can't move."

"Guess we're just gonna stand here till next year then, huh?" Sam asked, proving Dean wrong by taking a step in front of him.

A literal immoveable object.

Dean's glare intensified. So did the sharp pain in his side and shoulder. His insistence that he was going to drive faded like a burned out match. He held the keys out to Sam and said, "Only because I'm sick of listening to you complain that I never do what you say."

Sam rolled his eyes and took the keys. Any brief annoyance or anger he had possessed faded in a heartbeat and he asked quietly, "You gonna be able to-"

"You're the one who's gonna need the Jaws of Life to pry you out of the car when we get there," Dean said, not exactly joking as he watched Sam limp stiffly toward the driver's side of the Impala. Pulling the passenger side door open, Dean asked, "Are you even going to be able to sit down?"

"Just get in." Sam huffed, already struggling to get his door open.

Dean felt a pang of sympathy as he watched Sam carefully reach down while trying desperately not to bend at the waist or twist in any way. Not an easy task, especially for someone so tall. By the time Dean was sitting in the car and had pulled the door closed with a few choice words given the sharp pain the movement caused him, Sam had managed to get his door open.

And that was it.

Dean watched a full two minutes tick by on his watch before he asked, "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Were you going to walk?"

Sam snorted. "It might be easier."

Dean shook his head. "I'll drive. Get in the back."

"How's that supposed to help?" Sam sounded incredulous.

"Just stay stretched out-"

"I haven't been able to stretch out back there since I was-"

"Well, what then?" Dean snapped, tension and pain throbbing behind his eyes and down his entire body.

Sam responded by moving quicker than Dean had thought possible under the circumstances. With a barely disguised moan of pain, Sam folded himself into the driver's seat. He was shaking and holding himself so stiffly that Dean was afraid he might break if he shook any harder. The door remained open and the cold air was really starting to bother him.

"You gonna close that door?" Dean hated himself for being such a jerk, but was unable to stop the words.

He did manage to hold his tongue while he watched Sam's eyes squeeze close as he tried to regulate his breathing. It was the death grip he had on the steering wheel that convinced Dean. There was no way Sam was going to be able to turn and pull the door shut. Sam was silent while Dean got out of the car, hobbled around and slammed the door, then hobbled back around and got back into the passenger side seat. Dean slammed his own door, regretted it when the spike of pain through his brain increased, then rested his head against the seat back, slumping down and looking over at Sam.

Sam had released his right hand from the steering wheel and was trying to get the key into the ignition with a hand that was shaking like a leaf. Dean sighed, but didn't move. His last bit of energy had been exhausted. By the time Sam finally got the key into the ignition, Dean was feeling more than a bit lightheaded.

He closed his eyes, intending to open them back up immediately, but the lightheadedness drifted him right into the arms of unconsciousness before he even heard the familiar sound of the Impala's engine starting up.

* * *

The loneliness swept over him the moment Dean's eyes closed. It felt like the day after Dean had died and he had been left completely and truly alone. Sam tightened his grip on the wheel even though his fingers were already cramping. The cramping did help take his mind off the stabbing pain in his back. But nothing took his mind off the fact that Dean was unconscious and bleeding in the seat next to him.

It also didn't take his mind off the fact that Dean was about a thousand miles beyond pissed with him.

Sam sighed heavily, then gritted his teeth when a bump in the road sent a jagged spike of pain straight through his back. He was driving faster than he ever should have been under the circumstances, but with Dean bleeding and unconscious, he wasn't inclined to slow down. Now that they were out from under the house and on their way to a hospital, Sam had plenty of time to think about every single thing he had ever done wrong in the past year. And then, because the drive was long and he had nothing better to do, he went ahead and started thinking about every single thing he had ever done wrong in his entire life.

"Sam?"

Sam was so surprised to hear his brother's voice that he tensed up enough to cause a painful muscle spasm that had him gasping in shock.

"Sammy?"

Dean sounded concerned and Sam managed to turn his head enough to glance at Dean and ask, "You with me again?"

"Mostly. Sometimes." Dean's voice drifted in and out. "You doin' ok?"

Sam snorted. "Mostly. Sometimes."

"Y'look like crap. How's the back?"

"Hurting. How's the side?"

"Bleeding."

Sam tried to shift to get a better look, but even the slight twisting motion nearly had him coming out of his skin and he felt lightning running down his legs. For a moment, or maybe longer, he was aware of nothing but the contradictory sensations of pain and numbness that flooded his system. Then he could hear Dean's voice starting to come through the fog.

"Sam!"

Swallowing hard against the nausea, Sam managed to nod his head. Which evidently wasn't enough for his brother. _Jerk. Does he actually expect words?_

Dean's voice rose as he shouted, "Stay on the road!"

Sam blinked, realized he was halfway into the oncoming lane and swerved back into the correct lane. _More or less_. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like someone was physically punching him in the chest with each beat. The pounding and the pain didn't go away, but he was finally able to regain his focus and this time when Dean called his name, he managed to respond this time. With words and everything.

"I'm ok."

"Sure y're." Dean's voice was slurring whether from the head injury or the blood loss and exhaustion, Sam wasn't certain. And in a way it didn't really matter. Because, either way, it wasn't good.

"Hang on, Dean. Ok? We're close." Desperation broke out over him like a cold sweat. He spared a quick glance at Dean and saw that he was slowly but surely slumping further over against the door, unable to even hold himself upright any longer.

He was running out of time. They both were, Sam admitted to himself, the pain and stiffness in his back quickly becoming something he couldn't ignore for much longer. Simply pushing the gas and brake pedals was an exercise in stamina. Because it hurt like hell.

"Jus' don't break my baby," Dean muttered. "Don't scratch th'paint."

"I won't," Sam insisted, but he was talking to himself by that point. Swallowing hard, Sam stared straight ahead and concentrated on breaking every speed limit known to man.

Even disregarding the laws of traffic, it still took longer to reach the hospital than he wanted. By the time he saw the hospital, his vision was greying in and out and he wasn't sure if he would be able to hit the brake in order to stop the car when the time came. Dean hadn't stirred. The panic throbbing in his chest ebbed only by a degree when he pulled up to the ER and actually managed to bring the car to a safe, if not entirely elegant, stop.

Accomplishing that, though, took the so-called wind out of his sails and it was all he could do to turn the engine off and pocket the keys. He couldn't move, was afraid to even shift in his seat. How was he going to be able to get out of the car in order to get any help?

And then someone was coming toward the car. Sam thought he saw a flash of blue. Or was it green? A nurse? Maybe. Sam wasn't sure and he gave up caring about the exact same time he turned to get a better look at his brother. It was a mistake. The pain that he'd thought had _already_ been bad spiked.

As things went dark, he remembered that things could always get worse.

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for all the wonderful reviews for chapter 1! I got them while I was at work yesterday and they were truly the bright spot of the day! :D Hoping to have the chance tonight to reply to all of you personally!**

 **Several of you mentioned that season 4 isn't your favorite. I agree! I love some aspects of it, though. And I do love going back to these earlier seasons and being reminded of how the boys related to each other and how their struggles brought them to the place they are in the current season. They were both struggling SO much in S4 and had outside forces doing everything possible to sow seeds of mistrust and anger between them. They were pawns in a war that wasn't theirs and the pressure and manipulations almost did destroy them. But they didn't! And that's what I love about the Winchester brothers. They get broken and separated many times...but they always come back to each other and pick up the pieces.**

 **There are six (maybe seven if I get too wordy lol) chapters to this story, just so you know. Planning to post one chapter a day till Christmas. This story is more ready for Christmas than I am...haven't wrapped a single thing yet! Yikes!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _Chap_ _ter_ _2_**

 _December 22nd, 2008  
_ _1:25 AM  
_ _Hospital_

Dean stared at the ceiling tiles.

They were swimming.

Blinking, Dean wondered if the dark spots were real or if they were somehow connected to the overall drifty feeling he was feeling. _Feeling I'm feeling_. Dean huffed a laugh and it sounded funny to him. _Like the rest of...everything_. He blinked some more and realized he could feel sharp pain in his side; pain that speared harder with every breath he took.

 _In and out. In and out_.

He frowned. The tiles were getting more blurry and the dark spots seemed to grow larger as he tried to hold his concentration on the here and now. Voices were talking to him. _Or above me_? He frowned again, feeling his head and shoulder throbbing.

"Wh-" Dean choked out, the word sticking in his throat.

A voice answered him with floaty words from an invisible face. Dean couldn't figure out much that the voice was saying other than something about stitches. And something about him being very lucky. Dean didn't feel lucky. Not at all and he didn't even know why. But the floaty drugged feeling was enough to clue him in that something very bad had happened. The voices swirled and spun with the ceiling tiles and he felt himself growing seasick even though he was pretty sure he was on dry land. A surge of panic gripped his heart because, through the haze of pain and confusion, he did remember that something bad _had_ happened.

His voice had failed him before, but this time he didn't think anyone in the entire ER missed it when he raised his voice and asked very clearly, "Where is my brother?"

* * *

Sam stared at the ceiling tiles.

They were swimming.

He blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog from his brain. The last thing he clearly remembered was driving to the hospital. Dean passed out in the seat next to him. Bleeding. Sam's mind started playing word association without his consent.

Bleeding. Blood. Demon blood. Ruby. Lilith. Hellhounds.

 _Dean!_

And just like that it felt like the world had crashed down on him.

Again.

Tension swept over him and the muscles in his back seized. Sam held his breath until the agony died down a few degrees. He knew something was running through his veins, keeping him almost warm and fuzzy enough to ignore the bone deep ache. Almost. But not quite. His heart skipped a beat when the unbidden thought that it might be demon blood crossed his mind. Blinking a few dozen times, he tilted his head enough to catch sight of the IV pumping fluids and who knew what else into his system. _Not blood._

So probably a hospital.

He'd managed to get them to the hospital. Which was good. What wasn't so good was the fact that he was alone in a cold room and had no idea where Dean was or how he was doing or if he was even alive and, just like that, he was so overwhelmed he could barely breathe. Because he'd only had Dean back for a short time and what was he going to do now if Dean died again? But not breathing and then breathing again only made his back hurt worse so he decided he should probably try to make breathing regularly a priority.

After a few careful breaths, some of the panic faded and the logical part of his mind started to push through the fog of the pain and the drugs. He needed to assess the situation. Needed to find Dean. Needed to sort out what they were going to do next.

"Sam?"

He blinked until the haze cleared and the face of a nurse came into focus. Swallowing hard, he asked, "Yeah?"

And from there, it was a lot of _how are you feelings_ and _on a scale of one to ten what is your pain?_ A lot of _where is my brother_ and _how bad is he?_ By the time he had his answers and the nurse had hers, Sam was exhausted.

Dean was safe. And since that was really the only thing that mattered, Sam found it surprisingly easy to drift back into a drugged sleep.

* * *

Dean flipped the channels again. Not surprisingly he found nothing but cooking shows and infomercials to entertain him. After three AM, the slim pickings of late night television turned even more sparse. Sighing, he left the third cooking show he came to and dropped the remote on the bed.

 _Who cooks at three in the morning anyway?_

His shoulder hurt, his head hurt and the stitches in the gash in his side hurt. And the realization that it was almost Christmas hurt. Scowling at the television, Dean pushed himself upright against the pillows with his good arm. The dizziness was still there, as was the weakness and overall feeling of _yuck_ that came with painkillers. But the antibiotics were almost done and he was counting down the remaining minutes of the hour the doctor had mentioned would be the end of his stay.

The only thing that honestly stood in his way, worrying him to no end, was the noticeable lack of a younger brother. _No fractures. Sprained back. Severe swelling and tenderness. He'll recover with time and plenty of rest._ The doctor had at least laid his mind to rest with a comprehensive update on what was going on with Sam, but as usual, Dean couldn't let it rest. Couldn't trust it. Couldn't believe anything except what he had yet to see with his own two eyes.

Not that he was ready to believe much about Sam these days anyway - whether he saw it with his own eyes or not.

Sighing, Dean's irritation melted out of him and he lay back against the sheets, staring up at the ceiling. How had it come to this? How had he wound up in a place where he didn't trust Sam to have his back? Where he couldn't trust _Sam_ at all.

He hated, _hated_ , feeling like he couldn't trust his brother. He'd always trusted Sam. Always believed in him. Never had reason to doubt him.

Until he'd come back from hell and found a virtual stranger in the body where he'd last seen his little brother. Fist clenching on the sheet, Dean squeezed his eyes closed, but that only brought the memories clearer focus. He could see Sam, eyes filled with tears, shouting his name - _begging_ that he be spared - as the hellhounds had torn into his flesh. The moment had been traumatic for both of them and Dean shuddered, grateful the room was empty as he opened his eyes and blinked back the tears.

Staring at the television, but not seeing anything except hell, Dean forced himself to think back to that night. That moment. Because it helped bring into focus the last time he'd really known what was going on with Sam.

He'd realized, with gradually dawning comprehension, what that last year had done to Sam. The changes he saw now had begun the very moment Sam had learned what about the deal. Dean had tried to ignore his own fate and what that fate was doing to Sam for as long as he could.

Somewhere between the fiasco at the Broward County Mystery Spot and Sam's fanatical desperation of searching for an answer in Doc Benton's laboratory of horrors, it had become crystal clear that Dean's impending death was killing Sam.

And maybe it _had_ actually killed him, Dean thought. It had obviously broken something in him. Dean gritted his teeth wondering how in the world he'd ever expected Sam to be ok with what he'd done when he _still_ wasn't ok with what his father had done for him. He didn't regret his arguably ill-advised decision; would do it again in a heartbeat. But, now with angels whispering things in his ear and Sam doing things behind his back with a demon, Dean was realizing exactly how much the deal had cost them both.

Sam had given him a run down of what his four months topside had been like, but Dean knew his brother was holding back probably ninety-percent of the details. Just like he was. They'd told each other the minimum to satisfy the other. Except neither of them were satisfied. He didn't know what was going on in Sam's head these days, but his head was pretty much shouting _something is very wrong with your brother!_

For the first time in months, he was thinking clearly. Quite a feat considering the fact his mind was happily sailing along with pharmaceutical assistance. Maybe it was the fact that time has a funny way of forcing you to develop 20/20 hindsight. Maybe it was the way they'd come close to dying. Maybe it was the simple fact that he missed being able to trust Sam.

Maybe it was that he just plain _missed_ Sam.

Whatever it was, Dean was wishing he could do a few dozen things differently and wishing that it wasn't almost Christmas and that the world had not, yet again, decided to rain on their parade. But more than anything, he just wished he knew how to fix things. Sometimes the mountains of misunderstandings and disappointments and lies between them seemed insurmountable.

Then there was a quiet knock at the door and he looked up.

"Hey." Sam's voice was soft, tentative, as he stepped into the room.

A knot of tension released in Dean's gut and he smiled, "Hey, Sammy. Rough night, eh?"

"A bit." Sam's smile was genuine, but brief. He closed the door behind him as he stiffly walked into the room and hovered by the counter.

"You gonna stand there all day?" Dean asked, when Sam didn't immediately sit down.

"I might, actually," Sam said with a hesitant and very stiff shrug. His expression was sheepish as he added, "It's easier to...uh stand-"

"You mean it hurts less," Dean said knowingly. "Didn't they give you anything for the pain?"

Sam nodded. "How do you think I'm standing here right now? I wouldn't be upright without whatever it was they gave me."

Dean could see the lines of tension in his stance and guessed that Sam probably could have used a couple more doses that he'd likely refused. Deciding not to pursue it, he knew it was time to figure out what they were going to do next. "Well don't get comfortable."

"I don't think that will be an issue." Sam's smile was brief. "What did the doctor say?"

"I'm out of here in thirty minutes." Dean waved his good hand at the IV pole. "Soon as the antibiotics finish."

"Stitches?"

"Oh yeah."

"Stab anything important?"

"Nope. Didn't bleed out either."

"They top you off?"

"No transfusion necessary." Dean grinned. "Fluids and antibiotics and I'm golden. You?"

"About the same. How's the arm?"

Dean glared at the sling immobilizing his left arm. "Sore."

"I bet."

"Yeah."

"They give you something for the pain, too?"

"Good stuff." Dean nodded even though the meds had mostly worn off by now and he was feeling worse with every passing second. "You good to go?"

"Yeah."

Dean could tell his brother was uncomfortable. And not just because he was obviously in pain, but because he was afraid.

And Dean had no idea how to fix any of it.

* * *

Sam had stood around for almost forty minutes because, as painful as standing was, he never wanted to sit down again. The painkiller and muscle relaxant had helped at first, but he'd refused to take more than the initial dose they'd given him. He had a prescription for both medications and knew he was going to have to fill them. Because he wasn't going to be able to _move_ without them.

That would need to wait, though, because one of them needed to be safe to drive. Since Dean had a concussion and one arm out of commission, he wasn't getting the keys. Once he got Dean out of the hospital and back to the motel, he'd pick up whatever prescriptions they needed.

In the grand scheme of things, they'd been very lucky. It could have been much worse, although it was a bit embarrassing, if truth be told, that they'd wound up in the hospital after investigating a _non-haunted_ house. Given how crappy things had been going for them lately, Sam decided this was maybe the _least horrible_ horrible thing that could have happened. Bobby would give them grief for the rest of their lives if he ever found out what had happened. Which reminded him that he needed to make sure Dean was going to keep his mouth shut about it when they met up with Bobby.

As far as Sam was concerned, they were taking this secret to their graves.

Sam shook himself from his thoughts when they reached the front door of the hospital. Dean was still fussing at the nurse about the wheelchair ride. Why had _he_ needed to ride in the wheelchair when _Sam_ got to walk out? Sam let the nurse deal with Dean and didn't bother saying that sitting in a wheelchair would have caused ten times more pain than the walk from the ER room had caused. He kept his mouth shut because he didn't dare say anything like that since he was about to get behind the wheel of Dean's precious car and drive them two miles across town to the motel.

Leaving the nurse to her own fate with his grumpy brother, Sam made the slow trek around the car that someone had kindly brought up from the valet parking for them. Dean was in the car and the nurse was on her way back into the hospital by the time Sam was able to get the door open. It took another few minutes before he could summon the resolve to get into the car.

Proud of himself for managing to sit down again, Sam broke out in a cold sweat and mostly muffled the pained exclamation the move cost him.

Dean cursed. "You should've-"

"I'm fine," Sam cut him off, desperation giving him strength as he lifted his left leg into the car. He needed to get himself under control before Dean decided to take the keys away.

A huff of breath beside him told Sam that Dean did not agree. But he didn't say anything and Sam counted his small favors. It took effort, _painful_ effort, for him to pull the door shut. Once he had done that, getting the key into the ignition and starting the car were easy in comparison.

"You sure you're good to drive?"

Sam flipped the lights on. "I'm fine."

"Yeah you're fine and I'm going to be hustling arm wrestling bouts all week." Dean's sarcasm was clear as he waved his free hand to his immobilized arm.

Ignoring him, Sam gritted his teeth and forced his leg to cooperate in working the gas pedal. Who knew lifting your foot could cause such amazing pain through your entire body? Sam knew the trip was going to be an exercise in fortitude.

"You laid off the pain killer didn't you?" Dean asked softly, his voice dragging with weariness and pain. Sam ignored him again so Dean went on. "They sent in prescriptions for you too, right?"

"Yeah." Sam realized his voice didn't sound any less weary.

"Pharmacy is on the corner where we turn for the motel," Dean said. It had been the only twenty-four hour pharmacy in the area. "Stop there."

"I'll go back-"

"No. You won't. You'll stop there on the way and I'll go in to pick up the meds." Dean held up a hand when Sam started to protest. "Shut up. You're not going to be able to get us to the motel then go back to the pharmacy. You need to get out of the car before your back freezes up permanently because I do intend to drive my Baby again so you can't stay there forever. Go to the pharmacy and I'll pick up the meds and you can wait in the car. Then we both go to bed and take enough drugs to sleep until next year."

There was no way he was letting Dean go in for the meds, but Sam couldn't deny that lying down wasn't the best plan he'd heard all week. Already, he was hurting badly enough that he considered that he should have done what his nurse had suggested and taken a cab and left the Impala in valet parking until later. So far Dean hadn't bitched about his driving skills, but Sam could almost hear his teeth grinding with every jerky stop or acceleration. They were lucky just to be making forward progress at this point, Sam decided.

It seemed like an eternity until he saw the brightly lit sign proclaiming the twenty-four hour drug store. Turning the big car into the parking lot almost killed him and he was counting his blessings that he didn't take out the mail box.

Or the front doors.

"You know this isn't a parking space, right?"

Dean's voice sounded strained and not even a little amused. Sam couldn't turn to look at him because he wasn't entirely sure any part of his body would ever move again. He was leaving fingerprints on the steering wheel that would never come out and he was pressed so hard into the seat he was afraid he was going to wind up in the back seat. He vaguely registered when Dean reached over and put the car into park for him; he was still pressing down on the brake pedal with all his strength because he was afraid of what would happen if he let up pressure. Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition.

Silence fell as they both stared at the sliding glass doors of the pharmacy. Sam had to concede Dean had a point. It wasn't a parking spot. It wasn't even the convenient handicapped parking spot. It was literally just an open space in front of the doors. It wasn't worth the effort to laugh and it wasn't really that funny the more Sam thought about it.

"Sam."

"Yeah?" he managed to force the word out past gritted teeth, grip not relaxing on the wheel.

Dean sighed heavily. "Stay put. I'll get 'em."

"What?" Sam finally dared tilt his head and look at Dean. His hands relaxed a bit even though his back was still spasming so much he didn't dare let up pressing on the brake pedal.

"The meds. I'll get 'em. You can't move."

"Give me a minute-"

"I'll give you ten. Which is how long it will take me to walk in and pick up the pills."

Sam pried his fingers off the steering wheel and said, "You're not going in so just give me a minute!"

"Sam-"

"You have a concussion-"

Dean waved a hand and said, "I don't have a broken back-"

"It's not broken, it's-"

"You're not moving, man. You can't even get your foot off the freakin' brake pedal." Dean finally cut Sam off thereby winning the argument.

Sam clenched his jaw and made a purposeful effort to relax his leg. He did it, but it _hurt_. By the time he remembered how to draw breath, Dean was fumbling with the car door. From what Sam could see, he wasn't having an easy time of it. After struggling for a few more seconds, Dean stopped with one foot out of the car and collapsed against the back of the seat.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

"You ok?"

Dean's eyes were closed and his voice sounded as faint as he looked. "Think...I better sit...for a minute."

It was a toss up whether crying or laughing would be the best response in the situation. Sam settled for a sigh. "I told you to stay put. I've got it. Just...don't expect it to be quick."

Sam reached for his door handle while taking another peek at his brother. Dean hadn't responded, but he waved his fingers in what Sam took to be acquiescence to his statement. Steeling himself, Sam got his door open and, after a few painful minutes, managed to get his left leg out of the car.

He couldn't look over his shoulder to see how Dean was faring, but if he'd given up trying to go into the store, Sam knew his brother wasn't doing well at all which only worried him more. But there was nothing he could do, and nothing that was going to help _either_ of them until he could pick up the medications and get them back to the motel.

So he bit his lip, sucked it up, and somehow made it out of the car and onto his feet without screaming in pain or passing out.

Didn't mean he wasn't feeling shaky and very, _very_ close to doing either of those things in the near future. Hand pressed to the roof of the car, he forced himself to keep his eyes open and on the bright store in front of him. Needed to keep his mind focused. The hospital had sent over the prescriptions. All he had to do was get to the pharmacy counter and get the meds.

 _And get back to the car, back into the car, and back to the motel,_ Sam's annoying inner commentary continued.

He left the door wide open even though it was freezing outside and snow was beginning to fall. Despite the weather, he didn't dare close the door. The way his back was feeling, he was going to be lucky to manage to sit back down in the car and pull the door closed when he returned. Leaning over to attempt to pry it open would be a terrible idea and would likely end with him on the pavement.

Hating that he was leaving Dean sitting there, half in and half out of the car, Sam moved toward the front doors as quickly as he could, which was not quickly at all. The cold wasn't doing him any favors and, by the time he stepped into the store, he was shivering badly which did nothing but aggravate the jarring pain in his back.

The best and only good thing about the situation was that he had the store to himself and there was no one in line ahead of him at the pharmacy counter.

 _It's the little things in life..._

* * *

Dean stared up at the roof of the car and listened as Sam huffed and puffed and moaned and groaned. He was certain Sam thought he was being quiet about all of it but he wasn't keeping his pain as well guarded a secret as he wanted to. Dean lost track of time, mostly because he wasn't paying attention to anything except the way the dark spots were still crowding his vision and the way his right leg was getting colder by the second. It didn't seem worth the effort of moving, though, so he stayed where he was.

Uncomfortably slumped half in and half out of the Impala in a non-parking spot in front of a drug store in the middle of the freakin' night.

When the dark spots finally began to dissipate and he no longer felt like his head was going to spin off his shoulders, Dean gave sitting up a try. He managed to pull himself more upright in the seat and, after taking a few slow, deep breaths to calm the racing of his heart, he pulled his leg into the car. He couldn't get the door closed, though. So he sat there, both front doors open, as the wind blew and a few snowflakes began to drift from the dark sky.

 _Wonderful,_ he thought, turning his head from staring out the open door to looking at the storefront. Sam needed to hurry up because, as it was, Dean was having a difficult time allowing Sam to be driving. Him driving in a snowstorm when he could barely move was not something Dean wanted to experience. He considered moving over right now and taking charge of the driving from here to the motel.

It wouldn't be a popular decision, he knew, but based on the haphazard way Sam had been driving, Dean wasn't sure it wouldn't be the best decision. He wasn't knocking Sam's driving; actually he was impressed that Sam had done as well as he had in getting them to the hospital and now to the pharmacy. But he could tell Sam wasn't having an easy time of it. At all.

The issue was that he didn't think _he_ was going to be able to do any better. The pain was still somewhat dulled, but his whole body hurt and even with the fluids, he felt dizzy and close to passing out. And he was definitely _not_ going to mention the screaming headache. He was no stranger to concussions, and this didn't feel like the worst he'd ever had; but it was a close second. Already he knew they were going to be laid up longer than they wanted to be.

He stubbornly kept his eyes open and watched the front doors. If he closed his eyes, Dean knew he wouldn't get them open again and the thought of Sam trying to drag his sleeping form into the motel was as amusing as it was horrifying. Sam needed to not lift anything heavier than a french fry for the next week. They'd both experienced back strains and pulled muscles, but never before had they experienced a back injury that left them lying on the ground in tears. Dean had known Sam's injury was serious before the doctor had told him it was a sprain.

He'd been so relieved to hear nothing had been broken that, at first, he'd thought an ice pack and a good sleep would take care of the issue. The thought of a broken back, of paralysis, of Sam never being able to walk again had terrified him when they were sitting trapped in the house and he'd been trying to get Sam to answer his frantic calls. Waking up in the hospital and not knowing what had happened to Sam had given him even more opportunity to dwell on horrible imaginations of how they were going to be able to handle a serious injury like that.

Dean shoved the thoughts back into the corner of his mind as he watched the snowflakes continue to drift down. They were getting to be more clustered, more frequent and he was again hoping that Sam would hurry the hell up and get back out here so they could get to the motel before it turned into a blizzard. He almost leaned over to turn the car on, partially for warmth, partially to listen to the radio and hope to catch the weather report. But with his left arm out of commission, trying to lean far enough over to touch the dial with his right hand seemed like way too much effort. So he sat there, shivering in the cold.

Waiting.

Finally, _finally,_ he saw Sam's head over the top of a shelf of merchandise. He was walking so slowly that Dean wondered if he were taking the time to read the label on every single item on every single shelf. Trying his utmost to remain calm, he told himself Sam was probably moving as fast as he possibly could; probably faster than he ever should have been. Dean again regretted that he hadn't been the one to go in, but there wasn't anything he could do about it now. Sam finally reached the front door and Dean tried to feel relieved about that, but he really didn't.

Sam wasn't looking good and he wasn't so much walking as he was limping. His face was pale in the night, tense with pain as he carried the plastic bag with what Dean hoped were some absolutely amazing drugs. Summoning the strength to move now that the end was in sight, Dean leaned over to pull his door closed. He settled back against the seat and looked over as Sam tried to navigate the slight incline from the sidewalk down to the pavement. Dean held his breath until his brother was on solid ground.

It took another minute before Sam was able to shuffle around the open door. Dean wished there were some way he could help Sam get into the car without adding to the pain, but there really was no good way to go from a standing, upright position with an injured back to a seated position without pain. He didn't even have his left hand available to reach out to take the bag of medications.

The bag thudded onto the seat next to him. Dean looked at it, then up at Sam. After tossing the bag into the car, Sam reached in, grabbed the steering wheel and, in an impressive display of agility, got behind the wheel and pulled the door closed behind him. If he hadn't just been watching Sam limp his way out of the drug store, Dean might have thought his brother was doing ok.

But, looking up at Sam's face, Dean knew he wasn't ok. His eyes were squeezed closed, hands pressed against the seat, entire body shaking and not just from the cold. He was biting his lip so hard Dean was sure there would be blood. Giving him time to recover, Dean leaned over and did what little he could. He started the car and turned the heat on full blast.

They sat there in the car, cold and hurting, for five minutes before some of the tension began to ease out of Sam's body. Dean kept his mouth shut and pulled the bag onto his lap. Time to find the good stuff. The first thing he pulled out wasn't a bottle of pills. It was a large bag of M&Ms.

Dean looked over at Sam and found his eyes were open and he was staring out the windshield. He wasn't biting his lip any more and there wasn't any blood, but he didn't look like he felt much better. Looking back at the bag in his hand, Dean asked, "You stopped for candy?"

"There was a sale."

The response was so unexpected that Dean laughed. "Did you have a coupon?"

"Yeah." Sam sounded ragged, breathless with the pain, but there was the beginning of a very small smile on his face.

Dean's jaw dropped. "You aren't serious."

The smile grew just a tiny bit bigger. "It was in the flyer on the counter at the pharmacy while I waited. The M&Ms were right there next to the flyer, so I thought why not?"

"Unbelievable," Dean muttered, then wished he hadn't because the hint of a smile vanished and Sam looked away. Knowing Sam had misinterpreted his statement, Dean tried to salvage the situation. Catching Sam's eye, he grinned, "Only you would be checking the prices of candy and cutting coupons when you've got a broken back. Gonna make someone a wonderful wife someday, Sammy."

"Haha." Sam rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile on his face. He broke out into a sweat as he tried to reach the shifter and added, "Sprained."

"What?" Dean frowned.

"My back. Sprained. Not broken."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever. It's screwed up."

Sam sighed.

"Well, at least we have something to eat with our pills," Dean continued, rifling awkwardly through the bag with one hand. "Pretty sure we're not supposed to be taking antibiotics and painkillers on an empty stomach."

"Pretty sure crap candy isn't what we're supposed to be using as _food."_

"Bite your tongue. There is nothing crap about M&Ms." Dean dropped the candy back into the bag and slid to his left when Sam failed for a third time at reaching the shifter. He said, "I'll get it."

Sam let him. Dean waited till Sam had his foot on the brake pedal, then put the car into gear. And waited.

After a minute passed without any sign of movement, he prompted, "Sam?"

"You're-" Sam's voice was hoarse, strained as he stared at the rear mirror, "-gonna have...to look around for me. I...I can't turn and I can't really see that well-"

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean swore, but turned around. His back worked even if he wasn't too sure his eyes did. He blinked the black spots out of his vision and said, "Back up. _Slowly!_ You're clear. There's no one in the parking lot."

Dean held his breath, but thanks to the deserted parking lot, Sam was able to back the car up without incident. It hadn't been easy, hadn't been pretty, and Dean was grinding his teeth both with frustration and pain from the jerky ride, but they were finally facing nothing but open road. Sam had a difficult time shifting into drive, but Dean didn't feel up to moving to help.

He allowed his head to rest against the window as the car began to move forward. There was no way he was closing his eyes, though, and taking a chance of Sam running them into a building or worse. So he kept them open, trying to watch the road through the darkness crowding his vision and the snowflakes crowding the windshield. He wanted to open his mouth and tell Sam to flip on the wipers, but it didn't seem worth the effort. Sam did it in another few seconds without the prompting anyway. His driving hadn't improved from earlier, but he wasn't getting worse, so Dean felt like that should count for something.

"Just a little longer." Sam's strained voice broke through the silence and Dean wondered who Sam was trying to reassure. "Almost there."

Dean swallowed hard but didn't bother replying.

* * *

 **I can attest to the fact that there is NOTHING good on once you hit 3 am. Many a morning when I worked nights, I sat in the break room eating my lunch at 3 am while watching cooking shows. :)**

 **Also, I am writing poor Sam's pain from personal experience. I've wrecked my back several times over the years to the point I can't get out of bed. And trust me...sitting down IS torture. :D**

 **Chapter three will be up tomorrow! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

**I still haven't wrapped a single present. :D**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 3**_

December 22nd, 2008  
Early AM

If anything, the drive from the pharmacy to the motel was by far the most difficult leg of the entire journey. Sam knew it was the shortest drive he'd made, yet it seemed the longest. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of everything that had happened; maybe it was the build up of pain and stress. Whatever it was, when that motel sign came into view - the one that was only half lit - he wanted to cheer.

But he needed all his concentration to simply get the suddenly too heavy, too big, car to go where he wanted it to. The parking lot was a little smaller than the one at the pharmacy and there were already a few cars in the parking spots, which made maneuvering that much more challenging. Thankfully, when they'd checked in yesterday before the failed hunt, they'd been able to snag the last room on the end. There were several empty spaces between him and their nearest neighbor.

He swung the car in a too wide curve and ended up awkwardly half in-half out of the lines.

"It's fine." Dean interjected before Sam could even consider if he should realign. "Leave it."

Sam was relieved and worried. Relieved that he was done driving the car for the time being and worried about the fact that Dean was feeling bad enough he hadn't complained about the driving or parking issues. Dean always had been touchy about his car, but ever since he'd found the iPod, Sam knew his brother would never trust him with the car again. Dean didn't trust him much at all these days, Sam thought morosely.

He'd never be able to tell Dean the only reason he got the iPod was because he hadn't been able to bring himself touch the cassette tapes or the radio dial. The last cassette they'd listened to before Dean had died was still in the player. The radio was still on the same station. And the reason Sam listened to music on the iPod that even _he_ didn't really like was because he'd had to listen to something as different from Dean's favorite music as possible. _Everything_ had been a glaring reminder of the brother he'd lost; the brother he'd failed to save.

Shaking his head to get past those thoughts, Sam put the car into park, then fumbled with the key and turned off the ignition. For a minute, neither of them moved; both staring at the door in front of them that was both so close and so far away.

The trek through the pharmacy had leeched away most of Sam's carefully built supply of endurance and he knew if he closed his eyes, he would fall asleep right where he sat. But the air in the car was already growing colder and the snow was falling heavier and Dean needed medications and a bed and not to catch a cold. Given the fact he was still running a fever, Sam didn't want him sitting there even a moment longer.

Sam fumbled blindly to grab the bag of medications and candy without turning. It was awkward, but it worked and saved him from twisting his back.

Once he had the bag in his hand, Sam asked, "Ready?"

Out of the periphery of his vision, he caught Dean's nod. Sam opened his door without too much trouble, but getting out of the car was the bigger issue. He tried to keep his breathing under control as he contemplated if there were any possible way to get out of the car and into the motel room without pain. Short of teleportation, he didn't think it was possible.

"Sam."

He tilted his head up and found Dean standing in front of him, his good hand extended. "Give me the bag."

Sam frowned at the suggestion. _You only have one working arm so how does it make sense for you to take the bag? How did you get all the way around the car so quickly?_

"Sam, I've already got the room unlocked and the heat turned up."

"Are you reading my mind?" Sam stared up at him.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You've been talking out loud. And, for your information, I didn't make it all the way around the car _quickly_. It took me awhile. You've just been sitting there spaced out the whole time. I was nice and warm in the room but now, here I am, freezing to death. So will you give me the bag so we can go inside?"

Sam handed him the bag, trying to muffle the groan of pain that came from simply lifting his arm. He could see the worry underneath the annoyance in Dean's eyes. He could also see how close to collapsing Dean was.

So he waved a hand and said, "Go on. I'll be there in a minute."

But Dean didn't move and he gave Sam a look that said very clearly _I'm not going anywhere until you are in the room because I'm not walking back out into the snow to pick you up._ Or maybe the look was just telling Sam to hurry the hell up. Either way, Dean didn't move. Sam took a careful breath and pulled himself to his feet. It hurt. A lot. And he may or may not have dented the car door where he was clinging to it. Dean didn't say anything. Once he got his breathing mostly under control, Sam took a careful step away from the car.

"I'll close the door," Dean said, his voice trembling from pain or the cold. "Just keep going."

Sam did and it wasn't easy, but it was a lot easier than it had been getting out of the car. He heard the car door slam and he paused for a second until he heard footsteps drawing closer. A little longer and they were both inside the room, shivering and damp from the heavily falling snow. Dean closed and locked the door, then collapsed into one of the chairs at the table and just sat there, eyes closed, breathing heavy, plastic bag clutched in his free hand.

There were so many things that Sam needed to be doing. For one thing, he needed to find Dean's medications and get him into bed. And then he needed to find his own meds and get _himself_ into bed because he wasn't even going to pretend that he was ok. _So I guess it's only two things I need to do right now,_ Sam decided.

"You're talking to yourself again."

Dean's voice and the crinkling of the plastic bag drew his attention and he watched as Dean upended the bag on the table, its contents spilling out. Dean looked pale, an awful shade of white in the ugly light of the motel room. His expression was drawn in pain and exhaustion as he pushed the items around and lined up the pill bottles into two neat rows. Once that was complete, he looked up and frowned.

"Sam, you gotta get off your feet."

"Soon," Sam answered, pointing at the bottles. "You should take your meds and get out of those clothes and into bed."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, but he was already working the top off one of the bottles.

He held the bottle in his slinged hand and freed the cap with his other. Tilting the bottle against the table, he tapped out three pills. Sam was pretty sure the instructions had been for only two of the painkillers. And then Dean tapped out two more pills from another bottle. Sam was about to open his mouth to say that he wasn't supposed to be taking the antibiotics yet, but Dean looked up before he could say anything.

"Here," Dean said, pointing at the pile as he worked the cap back onto the bottle. "Take 'em and get changed and into bed."

Sam stared down at the pile, then back up at his brother and didn't know what to say. It was unexpected. And it was kind of sad that it was unexpected because not that long ago, Dean would _always_ have been shaking out the pills that Sam needed first. But since _Lilith-hell-Ruby-angels-demons-EVERYTHING,_ Sam didn't think he deserved the consideration and was shocked that Dean had bothered.

"Sam."

He blinked and met Dean's eyes again.

Dean sighed. "Stop thinking so hard about everything. Don't think at all actually. Just take the damned pills and get into bed before you fall over."

Nodding, Sam took a pained step forward, thinking even though Dean had told him not to. He thought about the fact that he was somehow going to have to get undressed with a back that hurt so badly he wanted to cry; already had in fact. And he thought about the fact that he needed to make sure Dean was ok. And because he just couldn't help himself, he thought about how it was almost Christmas and he had his brother back and absolutely nothing, _nothing,_ had gone right.

Four months.

Dean had been gone for four months. Four terrible months that had been one horrifying nightmare. For both of them. Sam had struggled on without support, without help, without _guidance._ Without his brother. All he'd dare hoped for had been to somehow save Dean. Somehow get him back.

But, just as he'd failed to keep him from being dragged to hell in the first place, he'd failed to get him back. Someone else had done that. And another little piece of his world that should have fallen back into place just fell that much further out of place. Because an angel saved his brother when he couldn't and had judged him at their first meeting.

An angel saved his brother and what had he done? Given himself over to a demon.

"Sam?"

"What?" He blinked and tried to focus on his brother instead of the painful thoughts in his head.

Dean tapped a hand on the table. "Take. The. Pills."

"Did you-"

"I took mine while you zoned out." Dean waved a hand at the collection of bottles. "So will you do us both a favor and take the meds and get off your feet?"

Sam moved forward; even standing still for as short a time as he had been had already stiffened his muscles up again.

Dean pushed himself to his feet with a groan, passed Sam the bottle of water, then reached back down for the collection of pills. He dropped them into Sam's hand, and, before Sam could say anything, Dean said, "Yes there's an extra painkiller there with the muscle relaxants. Take it and don't argue."

Sam closed his fist around the pills. There was this horrible part of him, deep down, that was furious.

 _He's pushing you around again! Like usual. Thinks you don't know what to do. Thinks you're weak. But he's the one who's weak. He's the one who came back damaged._

And then there was the other part of him that was so happy to see a glimpse of the brother he remembered - annoying, stubborn, over-protective. As much as it chafed to be treated like a kid, he'd be lying if he said there wasn't a part of him that was oddly reassured by it. Because it meant that maybe, underneath all the damage, Dean really was the same guy. Maybe they _were_ still brothers. Sam looked up from the pills, meeting Dean's eyes, and was surprised by the amount of conflict he saw. There was obviously a lot of stuff running through his brother's mind right now, too.

It looked like he cared. It looked like he cared about Sam. And Sam didn't deserved it. Not any more. Not after everything he'd done; after everything he _hadn't_ done. But he took the pills and his brother stood there until he'd done so, then nodded and walked to his bed.

Dean awkwardly got his coat off of his shoulders where they'd arranged it with only his good arm through the sleeve and sat down heavily on the bed. He was too pale and looked shaky, but still had the presence to look up at Sam when he moved closer.

"Don't even think about it," Dean said, holding up his hand. "Come any closer and I'm going to lay you out right on that bed-"

"Don't be stupid." Sam moved closer and felt his anger bubbling up. It bubbled up too often these days. He glared at Dean. "You really think you're going to be able to get your boots off when you have an arm in a sling and you look dizzy enough that I'm just glad you're not _already_ puking on your boots?"

Dean glared right back at him. "I'll manage. You're not leaning down to get them off me because if you even try, you'll be flat on the ground. If you're stupid enough to fall over, I'm leaving you wherever you land."

Sam clenched his fists. The burning in his mind had reached critical mass and he was too angry to stick around and deal with his brother any longer. So he walked, _limped,_ stiffly to his bed and grabbed his backpack and headed for the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked from behind him, sounding tired and confused.

"Taking a shower," Sam answered, slamming the door harder than necessary.

If his brother had added anything, Sam didn't hear it. He dumped his gear on the sink counter and almost reached in to turn the shower on to get it warming up. And then he decided that would be a bad plan because, by the time he managed to get out of his clothes, the water would be frigid.

So, doing his best to muffle his groans, Sam started to peel his dirty clothes off. Grateful that he'd chosen to get undressed in the privacy of the bathroom, Sam didn't have to fight back the tears of pain. Everything hurt. It was mostly centered in his back, of course, radiating outward from there, but everything hurt. He had a headache and was feeling a little dizzy and nauseated.

It took at least three times as long as it should have to peel his clothes off. When he nearly fell over trying to get own boots off, he had to concede Dean had made a good point earlier when he'd refused Sam's help. Finally free from his clothes and boots, he tried to straighten, but his back froze up so sharply that he started to think Dean would be finding him on the floor, naked, and unable to move. That horrifying thought alone got him moving again despite the pain, and he left the pile of clothes and boots where they lay. Thankfully the motel hadn't been interested in its guests taking deep, relaxing baths because the tub was so low he actually didn't have a terrible time getting into it.

And the hot water did go a long way to ease the tension in his muscles. It didn't do much for the tension in his heart and mind, but if he could move and function without stabbing pain, he might be able to regain control over the rest of it.

He lost track of how long he'd been in the shower but knew it had been a while judging by how cold the water had become. And only because he was starting to shiver did he decide to get out of the shower. If the water had still been warm he might never have left. But the shivering was bringing back into sharp focus exactly how much damage he'd done to his back.

Turning the water off, he toweled himself dry before attempting to get out of the shower. Pulling the curtain back and taking a deep breath, he forced himself to step out. There was no way he was going to be able to hurry, but Sam tried to get dressed as quickly as he could considering moving anything other than his fingers hurt like crazy.

By the time he was dressed, he had hoped to feel the handful of pills kick in, but so far he didn't feel a difference. He picked up his toothbrush and decided he might as well brush his teeth while he was still able to. Because, whether he liked it or not, Sam knew he wasn't going to be able to get out of bed easily once he fell into it.

Of course, leaning over and rinsing his mouth proved to be his worst idea yet. Because he couldn't straighten up. Couldn't move. He tried to control his breathing as he reached a shaking hand to turn the off the faucet. He was suddenly too warm in the not too warm room and dizzy and actually scared to move. His back was spasming so much that he felt like it was permanently locked in a half bent position.

Biting back a groan, or scream, he wasn't sure which, Sam attempted to straighten, but he didn't get far. His vision whited out and he broke out in a cold sweat

Only the fact that he had his hands on the counter kept him from falling over. That, and the knowledge that passing out now would be a very, very bad idea. So he held on, panting carefully and didn't move. Even when the sparklers in his vision cleared somewhat, the pain in his back did not let up. Legitimate fear ran through him at the thought he might have done permanent damage. It shouldn't _still_ hurt like this, should it?

Somewhere in the fog of agony, Sam heard a voice calling his name, and then he realized the bathroom door was open and Dean was standing next to him, his good hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Sam?" Dean's voice finally came in clearly.

Sam lifted his eyes from staring at the sink. "You need the bathroom?"

His voice sounded hoarse and weak to his own ears, and Dean didn't look impressed. "Even if I did, I'm not using it with you standing there. "

He wanted to lift his hands, push Dean aside and go fall into bed and try for a few hours of unconsciousness. But he couldn't move. In all honesty, he was lucky to still be standing. It must have shown on his face because Dean's expression changed from concerned to _very_ concerned and the hand on Sam's shoulder tightened.

"Few feet to the bed," Dean coached, sounding as tired and strained as Sam felt. "You can make it."

Sam disagreed, but didn't argue. He was still leaving dents in the sink and Dean was still standing there, hand on his shoulder. After a few more seconds, Dean said, "You can't stay there forever. Is it getting any better yet?"

"Not exactly," Sam muttered, but forced himself to release his death grip on the counter. "Let's just go."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, let's just go, he says. I've been waiting for you to move for ten minutes now."

"Hasn't been that long."

"I was standing here for at least five minutes before you snapped out of it."

Since he had a feeling Dean wouldn't lie about something like that, Sam kept his mouth shut. He concentrated on convincing himself that moving really was possible and that he wouldn't die if he stepped wrong. Having Dean standing there, supporting him, helped more than Sam would have admitted under torture. Because it just wasn't as easy as it had once been to admit he needed help or to accept it. Four months hadn't been a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it had been the longest, worst, most painful, four months of his entire life and he'd learned a lot in those four months.

He'd learned how to drink like his father. He'd learned how to hunt on his own although most of the hunting he'd done had been for a way to bring Dean back. He'd learned how to take care of the Impala in a way he'd never needed to know before. But most of all, he'd learned that he didn't need anyone. He could do it on his own. He was a capable hunter and didn't need Bobby or Dean or anyone else looking over his shoulder, telling him what to do. He could make his own decisions and stand on his own two feet.

Of course, right now he was having a little trouble with that last one.

So he tried not to think about the fact that he needed the meager support that his brother was providing with one arm in a sling, and a concussion. Tried not to think about how good it was to _have_ the meager support that Dean was able to give. And he tried not to think about how utterly, unspeakably, incredibly, grateful and emotional he was to have Dean back.

"Easy," Dean said as they hobbled unsteadily toward a bed that seemed a million miles away.

Dean's breathing was as labored as his own was, Sam noted, concern filtering through the haze of his own pain. Dean didn't need to be on his feet. He needed to be in bed. But as pain tore through him again with a step gone wrong, Sam squeezed his eyes closed and was grateful Dean was still next to him to keep him steady and upright.

"Here, here, you're there," Dean was saying, and Sam wasn't sure what he expected him to do with that information.

Sit down? Sure. That was what needed to happen, but at the moment, Sam was pretty sure sitting down was going to be more than just a challenge.

"Look, man, it's not that I don't get it. I know you're hurtin'," Dean sounded even worse now, "but you really gotta sit down."

Sam nodded and decided to stop thinking about it and just sit down. So he did and the pain about blew him away. But then, Dean was pushing at him, moving him, shoving him as gently as he seemed to be able to. Sam clenched his teeth so hard he was afraid he would break a tooth.

Gradually the blinding pain in his back eased until he could see again past the dark spots in his vision. A soft voice filtered in and he realized Dean was talking to him.

"...and we'll get through this, too." Dean's voice was almost a whisper.

"Dean?" Sam asked, and his voice didn't sound any louder.

"Hey." Dean shifted, his expression changing from near sleepiness to alert and concerned. "How're you doing now? You blacked out on me."

Sam didn't remember losing consciousness, but maybe he had. Remaining perfectly still, he said, "I'm fine. Go to bed."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know how dumb it sounds for you to be bossing me around when you can't even lift a finger?"

Sam lifted a specific finger and Dean laughed.

"Alright, alright. You comfy?"

"Heck no."

"Yeah, I figured." Dean sounded unhappy about it and Sam wasn't sure why he should care. Dean went on, "I can go get ice...should've grabbed a heating pad or-"

Sam shook his head. "It's fine. Seriously. You look like you're about to drop. Get some sleep."

Dean studied him a bit longer, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, ok."

He unsteadily dragged himself to his feet and moved away until he was out of Sam's line of vision. Staring at the ceiling, Sam wanted to say something. But he didn't know what to say. Hadn't known what to say for a long time now.

"Stop thinking so hard." Dean's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Sam tilted his head to look as Dean made his way back to the other bed and pulled back the covers. He sat down heavily and rested his head in his hand for a few seconds, then whispered, "Go to sleep, Sam."

A knot formed in Sam's throat at the sight of his brother looking so defeated, so broken. He couldn't find anything to say, so he watched as Dean flipped off the bedside light and eased back into the bed with a groan. In the pale light filtering in around the blinds, Sam could see that Dean hadn't pulled the covers up over himself. Nor had he bothered to change out of his clothes. It made everything seem even worse. Because Dean shouldn't be lying there, in pain, not comfortable, and so broken. He'd come back from hell. He should look stronger, should _be_ stronger.

Sam hated himself for even thinking it. But he missed his brother. The one who knew everything and was always stronger than anything that had ever scared him. That man was gone now. What was left was a stranger. An illusion. Staring up at the ceiling, Sam knew there was no one to blame for it except himself. _He'd_ been the one who hadn't been able to save Dean. Who had chosen a demon for his closest ally. As dirty as he felt about that, Sam told himself it was necessary.

Sometimes you had to get your hands dirty in order to fix things. That's what Dean couldn't understand. What he refused to accept. The bad guys didn't play fair, so why should they? And, if anything, the good guys didn't play fair either. So he told himself the same things he'd been telling himself for the past four months.

He was doing this for Dean.

He was going to fix things.

He didn't _need_ Ruby. He was using her.

Everything was going to be fine in the end.

All lies.

Every single one of them.

* * *

Dean hadn't expected to, but he'd fallen asleep almost as soon as he'd lain down. It had been deep. Dreamless. Dark and still. And then the heat licked up his body from the unseen flames and the terror had taken him.

He was tied down. Couldn't move. There was pain. Everywhere. A stabbing agony in his side, his arm felt like someone had shattered it with a hammer and he couldn't fight back because he couldn't see what he was fighting. Even so, he didn't give up. He felt his heart rate spike as the flames burned his face and he knew _he_ was near.

Alistair.

Dean screamed.

* * *

December 22nd, 2008  
8:50 AM

Sam jolted awake at the sound of a scream. Dean's scream. His heart nearly exploded out of his chest at the terrifying sound. He'd _never_ heard Dean scream. Ever. Awareness flooding him even as he was blinded by sunlight shining in through the drapes, Sam could hear Dean's unsteady, troubled breathing. He was close to hyperventilating.

"Dean!" Sam called, turning his head and already moving.

The sharp, grabbing pain gripped him and he gasped, vision sparking and ears filling with a rushing sound that didn't quite cover Dean's screams. Sam remembered the house. Remembered the hospital. The injuries they'd both sustained. He knew moving too quickly was a bad idea, but when Dean screamed his name, Sam lost all sense of reason.

"Sam!" Dean screamed again, his voice broken and terrible.

"Dean, I'm right here," Sam shouted a bit more loudly as he forced himself onto his side.

Getting his stiff body to move was taking more concentration than he wanted to devote to it. Especially when he saw Dean restlessly moving on the other bed, his free hand extended in front of him as he reached for something. There was no way of knowing for sure, but Sam figured he had a pretty good idea of what Dean was dreaming about. Sam bit his lip and pushed himself into a sitting position. His feet hit the floor and a bolt of pain stabbed through his back and momentarily paralyzed him.

Breathing through it, Sam caught a glimpse of the clock and discovered that it was nearly nine in the morning. They'd slept longer than he'd thought they would. Obviously, though, Dean's sleep was not the peaceful kind. He was kicking against the bed, wrestling with unseen forces and Sam was afraid he was going to wind up on the floor.

"Dean, please, calm down," Sam said, getting to his feet. He knew he was talking to himself. Dean was too far gone in the nightmares. His face was bright with fever and sweat was dampening his shirt and his hair.

Sam managed to cross the small space between the two beds without falling on the floor and, for a moment, stood there without having a clue what to do. Dean had one arm tied down thanks to the sling, but he was fighting with everything he had with the other and Sam had a feeling he wasn't going to come out of this easily given how high the fever seemed to be. But when Dean screamed his name again, Sam stopped hesitating.

He ignored the pull in his back and sat down on the edge of Dean's bed because bending over at this point would be the end of him. Sam was careful not to touch Dean's sore arm, but tried to hold him down with a grip on his other shoulder as he said, "Dean, I'm right here. Right here."

For a moment, he thought he'd gotten through to his brother. Dean's eyes were open, but bloodshot and half-crazed. They were jumping around the room, but settled on Sam for a second and Dean's body stilled. Then, the moment passed and Dean shouted even louder, "Sammy!"

Sam's eyes filled with tears and they were just as unexpected as hearing Dean call his name like that. He was so stunned that he didn't see Dean's swinging fist until it was too late. The impact against his face nearly knocked him off the edge of the bed. It left him biting back a groan as the hit reverberated from his face all the way through his body and his back spasmed again. Lifting a hand to his face, he could feel the blood flowing down from his nose.

There wasn't much he could do about it because Dean was about to fall off the other side of the bed.

He couldn't reach out for him from here because it required twisting and that was the worst idea ever. So he forced himself to his feet again, feeling dizzier than he had a moment ago. Dean was still calling for him, but his voice was weaker now, quieter. But no less painful to listen to. Sam knew the tears were still rolling down his face and he couldn't entirely blame the hit he'd just taken for them. Because, with Dean laying there, fighting against something only he could see, Sam found himself reliving the awful scene when he'd been trapped against the wall and Dean had been flayed alive in front of him.

Ripped to shreds while he'd been powerless to save him.

The worst moment of his entire life.

Sam limped around the other side of the bed and sat down in time to catch Dean just as he was about to roll off the bed. Dean moaned in pain and slumped back against the mattress when Sam gripped his shoulders. Causing pain was the last thing he'd wanted to do, but Sam couldn't let go of his shoulders. Not until he was sure Dean was staying where he was.

Dean wasn't moving as much now, his movements smaller and less fitful. Sam relaxed his grip and ran a hand across Dean's forehead, not surprised at the heat he felt. He saw blood dripping onto Dean's shirt and it startled him until he realized it was from _his_ nose. Pressing a hand to his nose, he tried to maintain eye contact with Dean. His eyes were barely open, but they were squinting up at him and Sam hoped that meant Dean was seeing him.

"Dean. It's me, ok? It's me. You're fine. You've got a fever. I'm gonna help, ok?"

It was too many words. Sam knew it. Dean's glazed eyes reflected nothing but pure confusion and sheer terror. But he wasn't moving at all now. Just breathing like he'd been running for hours. Sam sat there for a moment longer, trying to get a hold of his pain and sort through his confusing thoughts to figure out what he should do next.

"I'm gonna help," he said, trying one more time to get through to his brother.

Dean just moaned and closed his eyes.

"Ok." Sam decided he needed to do whatever he was going to do before Dean caught his second wind and decided to punch him again.

He forced himself to his feet, back freezing up as he tried to take his first step. Flinging a hand out against the wall for balance, Sam squeezed his eyes closed against the pain in his back and the sting of his face. Panting until he felt the pain recede a bit, Sam steeled his resolve and started moving again. The bathroom was mercifully close and he was there, leaning over the sink a moment later, watching the blood drip and splash into the white sink.

Blood.

It was blood.

His blood.

And it wasn't pure.

Wasn't clean.

Never had been and never would be.

It made his skin crawl and he gagged. Quickly turning the faucet on to wash the drips away, he fumbled for a washcloth. Wetting it under the stream, he pressed it to his face and hoped his nose wasn't broken. It didn't feel broken, but then he wasn't sure what it felt like because he couldn't feel anything but pain at the moment. He kept the cloth pressed to his nose and reached for the other washcloth. Getting it wet too, he squeezed it out as best as he could with one hand. Then he turned and made his way back out to the bed.

Dean was where he'd left him and his eyes were closed and his movements even more sporadic. Sitting down next to him again, Sam put the second washcloth against his forehead and wasn't surprised when Dean flinched and moaned at the contact.

"It's just me. It's ok." Sam didn't know what else to say.

Nothing was ok and it maybe nothing would ever be ok again. But he kept saying that it would be ok as he tried to bring the fever down and bring Dean back to reality.

* * *

He had his eyes open, but it took a long time for him to even realize it. Blinking a few times, the darkness cleared and Dean finally was aware of the fact that he was awake. He didn't remember falling asleep. Didn't remember much of anything at first. As he stared at a stained, yellowed ceiling, he took stock of how he felt.

 _Bad._ That was how he felt. To be more accurate, _awful._

With a side of _am I dead again?_

He groaned as his senses seemed to catch up with his awareness. His entire body hurt. There was a stabbing, burning pain in his left side, his head throbbed, every muscle from head to toe seemed like it had been strained to the breaking point and he couldn't move his left arm. It was nearly enough for him to come completely undone. Panic welled up and he struggled to move leaden limbs.

"Dean, hey, hey, it's ok. Don't try to move. I'm right here."

Another puzzle piece fell into place and Dean's eyes snapped to the right and he saw Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, expression concerned and exhausted. Sam didn't smile, but there was relief in his eyes when he said, "Welcome back."

Dean didn't return the greeting. His mouth and throat were dry and painful. Like he'd been screaming for hours. His unsettled stomach flipped at the mere thought and he swallowed hard, pressing his free hand to his stomach. For awhile, everything drifted out of focus again. Dean felt his body shaking. With chills or pain, he wasn't sure which. And even less sure that it mattered.

"Dean? Stay with me for a minute then you can go back to sleep."

Dean forced his eyes open, squinted up at Sam's blurry face and tried to say something. _What the hell happened_ was a pretty good opener. He decided against asking it, though, because he already knew he wasn't going to like the answer. Sam didn't seem bothered by his silence. He just leaned a bit closer and Dean felt a cold hand on the back of his neck, pulling his head up a little.

"Just a sip," Sam coached, sounding oddly breathless. "You're dehydrated. Gotta get the fever down some more and you'll feel better."

Feeling better sounded wonderful so Dean didn't fight it when he felt something pressing against his lips. He did his best to swallow the lukewarm water and wasn't even embarrassed when too much of it ran down his chin and all over his neck. It felt good on his overheated skin.

 _Fever._ Sam had said fever. Well that made sense given how miserable he felt. Trying to hold onto his focus, trying to keep his thoughts in order was proving to be a challenge.

Dean blinked when he felt something else at his lips.

"You gotta take the pills. For the fever. Please."

He allowed Sam to feed him the pills and another sip of water. His head was settled gently back against the pillow and, even though he wanted to ask Sam what was going on, wanted to find out why his brother sounded so wrecked, so worried, Dean couldn't. Because sleep overtook him and dragged him under.

* * *

 **Chapter four will be posted tomorrow! Hope you're all still enjoying! Thank you for all the wonderful notes!**

 **Also...as a heads up. My other Christmas story is complete and I'll be posting that tomorrow as well. It is a deathfic (SOB! why do I do this?). SO. Don't read it if you don't like true deathfics or if reading something sad like that right now would be difficult for you! I don't want it to be painful for anyone (why did I do this?! lol!). It's not super long and it does actually have what I consider a satisfying (happy-ish?) ending. :) If you're a masochist like me and want a good cry...help yourself. ;)**

 **Hope you're all having a great day! Now here I go...to wrap presents. maybe...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Well. I got all my presents wrapped haha! Let's see how the boys are doing today...**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 4**_

December 22nd, 2008  
2 pm

When he woke up, Dean found that he was able to think more clearly. The heated, muddled mess that had been his mind earlier was calmer, clearer. He remembered the house. The way they'd actually laughed when they'd realized it wasn't haunted. That one split second when everything had seemed fine; had felt like it had before he'd died. Before he'd come back to find his little brother wasn't the same person he'd left behind.

Then they'd fallen.

And oh did he ever remember the fall.

"Sam?" The name came out ragged and breathy, but he was relieved that anything had come out of his mouth at all.

No answer.

Dean moved a little, feeling that awful, exquisite misery that spoke of having endured a high fever. He ached. Everywhere. And he wanted something to drink so bad that it pushed past every other need he felt. Except for one. Desperate as he was for a drink of water, he was even more desperate to know where his brother was.

"Sam?" He tried again and still didn't get a response.

Shifting his head, Dean caught a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand and tried to figure out why it was so bright outside if it were two in the morning. And then he realized that maybe it was two in the afternoon. Either way, he was confused as to what had happened. He looked past the clock and saw that the other bed was empty. A bolt of fear ran through him and it hurt more than the pain in his head, side or arm combined.

Attempting to get his sluggish body to move, he felt his hand bump into something solid next to him. Turning his head, Dean was shocked and relieved to find Sam face down on the bed next to him, apparently sound asleep. For a moment, he just stared at Sam and tried to get his heart rate calmed back down to a more normal level. He shifted a bit more, tilting his head until he could get a better look.

Sam was lying on his stomach, no pillow under his head, arms down at his sides and his feet hanging off the bottom of the bed. He was as pale as the sheets and his face was creased in pain. Dean told himself to leave him alone. To let him rest. That he could do whatever he needed to do without waking Sam up.

But the way Sam was lying there scared him.

Fumbling with a leaden hand that didn't quite want to cooperate, Dean finally reached Sam's arm. He felt for a pulse and was found it steady. Squeezing Sam's wrist, Dean said, "Sam, wake up."

This time the response was instant. Sam's eyes opened and his entire body stiffened. He didn't move, but whispered, "Dean?"

"Yeah."

"How're you doing?"

"Hurtin'. You?"

"Yeah."

Dean's struggling brain began to catch up and he remembered his own injuries as well as Sam's. "Why're you lying there?"

"You were outta your head." Sam's eyes slid closed. "For hours. Your fever was high and you were fighting like crazy. Finally got you to take the Tylenol. I...I couldn't...I just needed to lay down for a minute."

Dean nodded, then it dawned on him that Sam's nose was swollen and looked like it had been bleeding. Heart jumping into his throat, Dean asked, "I do that?"

"Do what?" Sam mumbled, not even trying to make the words clear. He didn't open his eyes.

"Did I punch you?"

Sam's lips twitched in a tiny smile. "I don't know what you were fighting, but I put my face in the line of fire."

"Shit, Sam! I'm sorry."

"It's ok. Not your fault." Sam opened his eyes again. "Your fever was outta control."

It was a good excuse as far as excuses went, Dean thought, but it didn't make him feel the slightest bit better about it. He stared at Sam as his brother stared back silently. His breathing sounded congested and Dean hoped his punch hadn't broken Sam's nose. The reminder of how he'd been fighting in his feverish confusion brought back memories of the flames and darkness of hell and Dean wondered how much he'd said. How much he'd revealed of his time below.

It made his stomach roll again, but there were other more pressing issues. So he forced himself not to think about it. Pushing himself with difficulty into a sitting position, Dean heard Sam's quiet question from behind his back. He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his injured shoulder and said, "Gotta hit the bathroom."

"Then you should drink some water," Sam mumbled into the sheets. "Dehydrated."

Dean didn't reply. He focused all of his energy into getting himself onto his feet. He wavered and almost sat down again because he wasn't sure he would be able to avoid falling over if he didn't. But he gritted his teeth, stumbled a couple steps forward and got his right hand against the wall. Breathing through the pain, Dean hobbled the rest of the way to the bathroom. He couldn't fully straighten due to the throbbing pain in his left side.

A splash of cold water on his face did a little to help him wake up. The mental clarity came at a price, of course. Now he was even more aware of how much everything hurt. It was time for some painkillers.

Finishing in the bathroom, he stepped back out and glanced around. Washcloths and towels lay discarded on the nightstand along with a bottle of water and a plastic cup. Pill bottles were spread across the other bed. Dean leaned against the doorjamb and looked over at Sam. He hadn't moved. His posture, although lying on the bed, screamed discomfort.

"Sam?"

"Hm?"

"You take anything for the pain?"

"Mmm."

"When?"

Sam mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _I don't know_ and Dean turned toward the other bed. He sat down heavily and tried to sort through the bottles. Rubbing his eyes to clear them, he reached down again and tried to figure out which bottle was the industrial strength pain pills.

He vaguely remembered when they'd gotten back to the motel. He'd given Sam three of the pills and two of the muscle relaxants. But that had been hours ago. If he'd been running a fever the entire time and Sam had been sitting watch over him, Dean had a feeling he hadn't taken another pain pill or gotten much sleep.

Finally finding the ones he wanted, Dean held the bottle with his slinged hand and prepared to push himself up again. The bottle of water was there on the nightstand and he wasn't going to be picky about sharing it with his brother at this point and if Sam had an issue with it, well tough. Dean paused, watching Sam open his eyes. For a moment they stared at each other without a word.

"I'm gonna go get ice," Dean said, partially to fill the silence, partially as a thank you for the way his brother had sat up for hours trying to ground him through the nightmares.

Sam weakly shook his head against the sheets.

"Don't argue with me. I'm going to get you some ice. You're not in a good position, man, and you're never going to be able to get up if you don't take some medicine and get some relief."

"Dean-"

"Shut up, Sam." He said it without heat, grabbed the bottle of muscle relaxants in his good hand and made his way across the short distance between the two beds.

Dean wobbled halfway there and fell more than sat down on the edge of the bed; the abrupt movement drawing a pained moan from his brother. Breathing through his own pain, Dean said, "Sorry."

"It's ok."

Dropping one bottle onto the bed next to him, Dean started fumbling with the lid of the other one, saying over his shoulder, "You gonna be able to take these-"

"Not right now. Ok? I can't move right now." There was a distinct, undisguised plea in Sam's voice.

Dean bowed his head, his hands stilling. "You can't stay there forever."

"No. Just for now. I...I've got it under control right now," Sam said, voice shaking as if even talking was stealing his precious control. "If I move-"

His voice trailed off and Dean sighed. He set the two bottles on the night stand and grabbed the bottle of water. Draining half of it, he tried to remember if they had any other bottles. Twisting around, he looked at Sam and said, "You been drinking anything?"

"Yeah."

Dean wasn't sure if he should believe that or not. Wasn't sure of much these days. He stared at the wall for a few silent minutes. Then he finished the bottle and dropped it into the trash can. Too tired to care about anything, Dean eased himself back down onto the bed. He fell asleep a moment later to the sound of his brother's steady breathing next to him.

* * *

December 23rd, 2008  
Morning

Sam fell asleep listening to Dean's breathing and woke up to its absence.

Groggy and disoriented, Sam blinked against the bright light streaming across the bed. His throat felt like someone had shoved gravel down it and he swallowed painfully against the sensation, running his tongue across his dry lips. Not daring to move a muscle yet, Sam managed a pathetic attempt at calling Dean's name.

Nothing. No response. Silence in the room. He frowned and shifted his right arm until he was able to reach out toward the other side of the bed. Where he'd last seen his brother. The movement hurt, but not as much as he'd been afraid it would. He shifted a millimeter and realized his shirt was pulled up halfway and something cold and heavy was pressing down against his back.

Ice.

Wrapped in a towel, no...a pillowcase. Towels were too thick, but ice without some kind of cover against his skin would have been agony. The pillowcase was the perfect thickness to allow the comforting coolness to soothe the muscle spasms. He felt a blanket over his body and stopped moving, stopped thinking. He almost fell back to sleep. The sound of running water in the background filtered through the desire to sleep and he forced his eyes open again when the water stopped. He heard soft muttering from the bathroom and, a moment later, Dean stepped out.

He was shirtless and Sam could see every bruise, every cut, on his upper body. The deep gash in his left side looked awful. Red and angry around the edges and swollen at each stitch. Dean was holding his left arm close to his body as if it were too heavy to hold up without the sling.

"Dean?" Sam whispered hoarsely, drawing Dean's attention his way.

"Sam?" Dean turned slightly and stopped moving. His hair was dripping, his was face pale and finally didn't look flushed with fever. "How're you doing?"

"Better."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You haven't moved. An inch. All night."

"All night?" Sam blinked. "It's-"

"It's almost nine." Dean pointed at the clock Sam couldn't see. "We slept all night."

"We did?"

"I got up a couple hours ago. Got you some ice, got me some drugs." Dean's grin was wide and reached his eyes, even if they were bloodshot and exhausted. "Took a shower. Thinkin' bout food."

Sam waited for more. Dean tilted his head and Sam could tell he was assessing him. "You think you can move yet?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Yeah right." Dean rolled his eyes. "Stay put for now."

"What're you gonna do?" Sam asked, yawning. He fisted his right hand in the sheets, trying to convince himself to move.

Dean was moving slowly and edged out of Sam's line of sight. "Gonna get dressed. Gonna get breakfast. Gonna figure out how to get you into the car."

Sam squeezed his eyes closed and pushed himself onto his side. The soothing ice pack slid off his back and he missed the numbing sensation immediately. His vision didn't white out and he could still breathe, so obviously things were a little better than they had been earlier.

"Sam, what part of stay put for now don't you comprehend?" Dean's voice was irritated and he stepped back into Sam's line of sight. He had a shirt in his good hand, his sore arm still pressed close to his chest.

"I'm ok." Sam breathed through his mouth and tried to look ok.

"You've been lying there in that exact position for hours. Take some of the pills and give it some time. _Then_ you can try to move."

Sam ignored him and pushed himself upright, biting his lower lip to keep from shouting in pain as his muscles protested the movement. He heard Dean swearing in the background, but continued to ignore him. Getting his feet on the floor, he braced his hands against his knees and hoped he wasn't going to pass out now.

He didn't pass out and he didn't fall off the bed. Sam looked up and saw Dean standing in front of him. He had his shirt on now and was holding his bad arm and looking like he was in a lot more pain than he wanted to admit. For a moment they were silent, then Dean sighed and asked, "You ready for some pills?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm ok without them."

Dean looked like he might argue, but his jaw snapped shut and his eyes hardened and Sam felt cold wash over him that had nothing to do with winter or ice packs. He lifted his hands from his knees and rubbed at his eyes to avoid Dean's stare. After a few seconds, he heard his brother move away. Sam lowered his hands and stared at the dirty carpet wondering what they were supposed to do next.

"We're a couple hours from Bobby's." Dean's voice was gravel-rough from somewhere behind him.

Sam nodded but didn't say anything. He took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet, not expecting and not receiving any help. He could move a little easier than before, but he could feel the tightness, the sharp grabbing sensation in his lower back and knew if he twisted wrong or bent over he would be in trouble.

Which meant getting his boots on and then sitting in the car were still going to be issues. Gritting his teeth, he hobbled around the bed until he found his boots, then sat down in the chair. Trying to lift his legs and shove his feet into the boots left him panting and gripping the edge of the table with one hand.

By the time he had his feet in the boots, Sam decided tying them was not really important. He looked up, realizing Dean had been busily moving around the room the entire time. Packing what little gear they'd had in the room. The pill bottles were all dropped into a bag as was the sling. Sam kept his mouth shut, knowing suggesting Dean wear the sling would only be asking for a shouting match. Instead, he pulled his own coat on and grabbed the few things he could get to before Dean did.

Dean was out the door without a word and Sam took one last look around the room before following his brother outside. The cold air bit his skin and he started shivering almost immediately, the motion aggravating the pain in his back. He dropped the bag in his hands into the trunk, barely getting his hand back before Dean slammed the trunk and headed for the drivers seat. There was no way Dean should be driving, but Sam didn't say anything. He got into the passenger seat with difficulty. Closing the door behind him, Sam looked over as Dean started the car.

"Breakfast?" Sam asked.

"Not hungry," Dean snapped, revving the engine and tearing out of the driveway.

Sam braced one hand on the seat and held onto the door with the other, knowing there was no point in trying to say anything at this point. So he told himself he wasn't hungry. Told himself that he wasn't in pain and that everything was fine.

And, just like all the other lies he told himself these days, he didn't believe a single one.

* * *

Dean gritted his teeth against the ache in his shoulder and the pain in his heart. He didn't know why he'd gotten so irritated. Well, other than the fact that Sam was being stubborn and stupid and acting like he was on his own.

 _As usual_.

Maybe it was because he still felt feverish and unwell. Maybe it was because his arm hurt and his side hurt and his head hurt. Maybe it was because he'd come back from hell and his brother was lying to him and angels wanted him to lead their war and no one, _no one,_ wanted to be straight with him. Maybe it was the simple fact that he didn't deserve to have been brought back. Whatever it was, Dean felt a gaping, icy hole in his middle and it only grew larger with every passing day.

Forcing himself to focus on the road, he tried not to think about any of it. He told himself that getting to Bobby's place was the only thing that mattered now.

Why exactly, he wasn't sure, since Bobby wasn't there and they didn't have a job on the the agenda.

He didn't turn on the music and he didn't ask Sam if he needed to stop. He just drove. If he hadn't needed gas to continue to drive, Dean would never have stopped. As it was, he pressed on longer than he usually did when the gas gauge went low. As long as he was driving, he wasn't thinking. But then he reached the point where he had to pull over. And, for the first time in an hour, he looked over at Sam.

Halfway expecting to find him asleep because he'd been uncharacteristically silent, Dean felt guilt hit him like a freight train. Sam had his eyes closed and he looked sick. Absolutely sick. His breathing, which Dean hadn't bothered to notice, was stilted; sharp shallow breaths through his nose. His bruised, swollen nose.

Dean chewed his lip as he turned the car in a gas station driveway. Pulling up to the pump and putting the car in park, he glanced at Sam again and saw he'd opened his eyes and was making an effort to look like he wasn't in agony. It wasn't successful. Dean pocketed the keys and cleared his throat.

"You should get out and walk around a bit," he suggested, trying to sound casual. "I can get the gas and-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence because Sam moved faster than he'd ever expected. Nearly wrenching the door open, Sam pushed himself out of the car and almost, _almost,_ managed to muffle the cry of pain when he straightened up. Dean didn't move. Just stared out the windshield and wished he knew how to deal with the situation. Nothing he did lately seemed to be what Sam wanted him to do. He rubbed a hand down his face, then opened his own door.

By the time he'd straightened his own stiff muscles out, Sam was nowhere in sight.

"Damn it." Dean shook his head and limped toward the gas pump; the stitches in his side pulling uncomfortably.

He started filling up the tank, wondering if Sam would come back or if he'd somehow arranged to meet up with Ruby and take off again. As usual, the thought of that skanky bitch turned his stomach and made him want to punch Sam in his stupid face for ever going near her. And then he thought about how he'd already punched Sam in the face. Punched him in the face while Sam had been sitting there trying to lower his fever and he'd been having nightmares about hell.

Heart pounding at the memory, Dean looked around again. Still no sign of his brother. By the time he'd finished pumping the gas, he was less irritated and more worried. Heading for the store, he found it a little busier than the usual gas station, but no sign of Sam. Dean walked toward the back of the store and pushed past a beefy trucker coming out of the restroom.

And found Sam, hunched over the sink, eyes squeezed closed, water running down his ashen face.

"Sam?" he asked, uncertain how Sam would respond.

"What?" Sam didn't move, didn't open his eyes.

His shoulders were shaking and Dean told himself it was just from the pain.

"I…" Dean swallowed hard. He didn't know what he should say.

Sam straightened with a groan, ripped a paper towel from the dispenser, wiped his face and said, "Let's just go."

And then he walked out.

Dean rested a hip against the sink and closed his eyes. His mind was blank. Dark and empty. Scary in its desolation. He tried to form a coherent thought. Tried to analyze the situation. Figure out where they went from here. But he had nothing. No idea.

Dean shifted and turned the sink on to splash some cold water on his own face. He'd come back from hell only to discover the brother he'd left behind, the brother he'd died for, had _screamed_ for, was gone. That hurt more than anything that had happened to him in hell. And it hurt more than his injuries right now.

Staring at the wall for a few seconds, Dean shook his head and glanced at his watch. Another hour or so till they got to Bobby's. And what was so great about that? It was his goal. It was what he'd convinced himself would be the light at the end of the tunnel. But it wasn't. Not really. It was just an end to this particular trip. An end to this day. It wasn't going to solve anything. Wasn't going to bring them happiness or solve their problems. It wasn't going to magically bring his brother back.

And it wasn't going to put _him_ back together either.

He was just as broken as Sam was.

Wiping his eyes and face on a paper towel, Dean straightened and repackaged every single thought into the tiny dark lock box they belonged in and left the bathroom. He walked through the gas station, thinking that maybe he should pick up some food. Bobby'd been gone for a week. Some hunt in Washington state. He probably didn't have much in his pantry. Dean shoved the front door open and shivered in the cold air. He hoped Bobby had some canned chili in the basement that they could survive on for a day or two.

Something that might have been relief twitched in his chest when he saw Sam sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. Honestly? He hadn't been sure if he should expect it or not. Dean shoved the relief into another box, along with the pain that was throbbing through his body, and pulled the car door open.

Getting behind the wheel, he had a passing thought that maybe he should find a motel. Or let Sam drive. Because his head was hurting worse and there was something off about his vision. Dean told himself that he'd driven plenty of times with a concussion. He told himself that he was in better shape than Sam was. Starting the car up without a word, he ignored his brother and ignored everything else except the snow crusted blacktop in front of him.

One hour. Less if he pushed it. Then he could lay down and take a handful of pills and sleep for the next week.

Whether Sam would still be around when he woke up, Dean didn't know.

* * *

Sam knew Dean shouldn't be driving. He'd known it from the moment they'd gotten into the car at the motel. But steam had practically been pouring out of Dean's ears, so he'd kept his mouth shut. And then he'd kept his mouth shut for the next two hours. Partially it had been the worry of how Dean would handle anything he had to say. Partially it had been because he'd been in so much pain that opening his mouth would have resulted in some very unmanly whining.

He should have taken the pills when Dean had offered them. He'd been thinking about the fact that one of them should probably not be on drugs when they hit the road. He hadn't been thinking about the fact that, by declining the pills, he'd rejected Dean's good natured attempt to help. So he'd wound up sitting in agony in a silent car with an angry brother driving. A brother who _was_ on drugs and who had a concussion. All in all, the day was going very well.

The gas station hadn't made anything better. Because he'd been so tense and in so much pain that he hadn't been able to do anything but bolt for the bathroom (as fast as someone with a sprained back and a bad limp could bolt). He'd barely begun to compose himself from the unexpected rush of tears (of pain, not of any other cause) before Dean had walked into the bathroom. And then he'd done the same thing he'd been doing for a long time now.

He ran.

Past his brother, past the issues between them. And now they were back on the snowy road and nothing had improved. At least nothing had gotten worse, he decided in a moment of dark optimism.

Feeling more alone than he had in months, Sam tried to ignore everything and focus on the road. Maybe he couldn't drive, but that didn't mean he couldn't keep his eyes open for danger. Dean was driving slower than usual and that told him everything about how bad his brother was feeling. Because he wasn't driving slow due to the weather conditions. The snow was light and fluffy and not impeding vision or making the roads slick. Dean was driving slow because he had a concussion and probably should still be in a hospital.

The time passed exactly as Sam had expected it to. Slowly and silently. But it passed safely and the familiar sight of the salvage yard soothed the worry he'd been feeling the entire trip. Dean pulled up as close to the door as he could and turned the car off. For a moment, they sat there staring at the snow that was drifting down in heavier, larger flakes. Sam wasn't exactly excited about the prospect of moving again and somehow he felt like Dean was in the same boat.

But then it started getting cold in the car and Sam couldn't take the shivering so he made the first move to get out. It didn't hurt any less than it had earlier, but he knew how to move now to minimize the blinding agony. He thought he was doing a decent job, but by the time he'd reached the trunk, Dean was already there, grabbing gear. His brother didn't say anything, just turned and headed slowly for the porch. Sam reached for the last bag. The smallest one. And something warmed inside him despite the freezing weather and the cold shoulder he'd been getting from his brother.

Closing the trunk, Sam turned and limped toward the steps. The front door was open, the light on inside and Sam started thinking about hot chocolate. By the time he was halfway up the stairs, he was thinking about strong painkillers and alcohol. The cold air nipped his cheeks and his back was spasming and not cooperating with his desire to get out of the cold. With one step to go, it completely locked up. He didn't bother muffling his groan of pain because there wasn't anyone around to hear it anyway. The bag he was carrying dropped to the snowy porch and he managed to get one hand on the railing to hold him up.

And there he stood. The snow blew around him and he pictured himself becoming a snowman on Bobby's porch and tried to remember what it had been like to be a kid playing in the snow. It had been a long time, but they had been kids once, even if not exactly normal kids. Sam tried to focus on those memories, happier times, and use them to pull himself past the pain. He kept his eyes on the door because he didn't dare close them.

And then there was movement beyond the door and he was surprised to see Dean stepping back outside. Tracking his movement was a struggle and Sam couldn't even hope to disguise his pain, let alone hide it.

"Sam?" Dean asked, his movements stiff as he came closer. "That bad, huh?"

He allowed his eyes to close when he felt Dean's hand gripping his arm. For a moment, nothing happened. Sam still thought he was going to end up standing there until the end of time. He forced his eyes back open and tuned in to what his brother was saying.

"...think you can move yet?"

Sam wasn't sure, but he didn't want to stand there in the cold any longer, so he nodded. Dean tightened his grip on his arm and said, "Ok. You only got one more step. One step then it's flat from here. That's not so bad, right? Flat ground? Where you wanna go from there? Couch?"

He wanted to lay down flat. Bury his face in the pillow and sleep. That was what he wanted to do. What he ended up doing was taking that one step up. And then he let Dean lead him into the house that was still too cold but not as cold as the porch had been. Dean guided him to a wall and Sam put his hand out against it, doing what he could to control his breathing. The presence beside him disappeared. A moment later, the front door closed and the cold draft was mercifully gone. There was a thud on the ground that told him Dean must have brought the last bag inside. And then Dean was back next to him. Not touching him, but there nonetheless.

"Sam? What're you thinking?"

"Shower," he gasped out, the word itself seeming to stab into his back. Hot water sounded like the best thing in the world right now.

There was silence for a moment and he knew Dean was running that statement through his slowed processors. Then Dean said, "Ok. Hang on. I'll go turn it on. Take forever to get it hot in this weather. Just...stand there….or whatever. Just don't fall ok?"

Sam didn't bother answering. He just stood there and didn't fall.

* * *

Dean's anger had diffused about the time he'd parked the car in front of Bobby's place. Maybe it was the familiarity; the sensation of being _home._ Maybe he was just that tired. Either way, he didn't feel anything but exhaustion. He wasn't sure what Sam was feeling other than pain, but his brother hadn't bothered to say anything, just got out of the car. By the time Dean had gotten out himself and started gathering their gear, Sam had finally arrived at the trunk. So Dean left the smallest bag and headed for the house. He had a feeling Sam wouldn't want to be studied right now.

Dragging himself into the house, Dean dumped the gear on the table. Then he cranked up the heat. He started thinking about things like hot chocolate or, even better, a hot toddy. And then he realized he was still the only person in the house.

So he'd gone to investigate and found his brother paralyzed on the front porch. Now he was turning up the water as hot as it could go and trying to figure out, yet again, where they went from here. Since that line of thinking led to nothing good or helpful, Dean left the water running and the thought unfinished. He walked back out to the entryway and found Sam exactly where he'd left him. Which was bad in that it meant Sam still wasn't moving. But it was good because it meant Sam was still standing up. Catching Sam's eye, Dean felt a wave of anxiety rush over him, then shoved it aside. Because Sam didn't look like he wanted to fight about anything. He just looked like he was hurting.

"Hot water's running. Think you're gonna make it?" Dean asked softly, his voice surprisingly shaky.

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything. His jaw was clenched so tight it was no wonder he didn't answer. But he peeled his hand off the wall and started fumbling awkwardly with his coat. Dean almost moved to help, but then stopped. Because if Sam had made one thing clear of late, it was that he was fully capable. Of everything. He didn't want help and he didn't need help. And Dean didn't want to start another fight, but he also couldn't stand watching Sam struggle.

So he stepped forward and did what he needed to do and helped Sam get the coat off.

"Thanks," Sam whispered, meeting his eyes.

Dean nodded and asked, "You gonna be able to manage the rest of it?"

He wasn't being nasty or speaking in jest. It was a legitimate concern. As difficult as things were between them, Dean wasn't going to walk away if Sam needed the help. And he could see the understanding in Sam's eyes. The acceptance. Not resignation. Acceptance. If he didn't think he could handle it, he'd say so and that was such a relief that Dean didn't know how to react. He wanted to grin and say, _everything's back to normal. Everything's fine!_ But everything wasn't back to normal or fine or anything else.

It was just a step in the right direction. And that was something.

Sam started working at the buttons of his shirt and said, "Thanks. I...I think I should be ok."

"Alright." Dean nodded, knowing it wasn't a brush off. He smiled faintly and said, "Go. Use all the hot water Bobby's got, ok? Not like he's usin' it. I'll look for grub."

"Deal." Sam started moving forward again, not bothering to disguise the limp or the way he couldn't quite do anything except shuffle like a hundred year old man.

Dean refrained from teasing him about it. It made _him_ physically hurt to see how much pain Sam was in right now. Turning away with a sigh, he realized he was physically hurting due to how much pain _he_ was in, too. He probably should have put the sling back on a long time ago. Walking into the kitchen, Dean knew he was straining it worse by how tightly he was holding it to his chest. He might as well have had the sling on considering he wasn't moving his arm anyway. The gash in his side didn't exactly feel good either.

It crossed his mind that maybe he should sit down for a minute or two. Ignoring the thought, he pressed on toward the refrigerator. It was just after noon and he wasn't exactly hungry, but neither of them had eaten all day. Pulling the door open, Dean stared into the empty depths of Bobby's fridge. He stared at it for a good two minutes.

"Great," he mumbled to himself. "Pickles with some mustard. And a side of whipped cream. Delicious."

A bit more investigation revealed half an onion and a diet coke.

He glared at the coke. "What the hell, Bobby? No beer but you got a diet coke?"

Sighing, Dean grabbed the can and popped the top. He kicked the door shut and took a drink of the disgusting excuse for a can of soda. After the first sip, he realized how thirsty he was and drained half the can. Stumbling to the table, he dropped into the seat, set the can on the table and cradled his head in his right hand while keeping his left arm still pressed tightly to his chest.

Ordering a pizza was probably what he should be doing. But pizza didn't sound good and that right there was saying something. He cursed himself for being stupid and pushing them all day without stopping for food. Should have at least run through a mini-mart for a few staples. It hadn't been a surprise that Bobby wasn't home. He'd told them he was heading out the same day they'd caught wind of a potential haunting a state over. So picking up a few groceries really should have been more of a priority.

Dean squeezed his eyes closed and groaned. He leaned forward a bit more until he could rest his good arm on the table and press his head down against it. The position wasn't comfortable and it pulled at his side, but he didn't move. He didn't know what he would do if he did find the strength or motivation to move. And his head was hurting so much that he didn't dare attempt to lift it.

So he sat there and gave up thinking for a little while.

* * *

 **Chapter 5 coming tomorrow!**

 **Thank you for reading! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Merry Christmas Eve! I can't believe tomorrow is Christmas! This chapter brings the boys to the early start of their own Christmas Eve...**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 5**_

 _December 23rd, 2008_

The hot water had soothed some of the tightness of his muscles although it hadn't relieved the pain completely. But it had given him a chance to hide the tears of pain and frustration and downright misery from his brother. Sam stood with his back against the bathroom door and stared at the opposite wall. He was showered and dressed and still standing in the bathroom because he was afraid to face his brother again. And he didn't even care how pathetic that was.

Leaning his head back, Sam closed his eyes. He wanted to go out there and return the way they had been _before._ Before Dean had gone to hell and Sam had gone to a demon. Well, technically, she'd come to _him,_ but that didn't make him feel any better. Because he'd stopped fighting her. He'd gone against Dean's dying wish and become exactly what Dean thought he was.

What he _knew_ he was.

A failure

A _monster._

Sometimes he wasn't even sure Dean thought of him as his brother anymore. And that stung. Not that he didn't deserve it. He'd failed Dean when he'd failed to save him from the hellhounds in the first place. Everything since then had just been one long continuation of the nightmare. Every decision he'd made since the day Dean had died had been the wrong one. He kept telling himself he was doing the wrong thing for the right reasons, but the mantra was wearing thin even to himself.

Sam could feel his back beginning to seize up again and knew he couldn't stand there any longer. Facing his brother was no longer optional because he couldn't stay where he was. The painkillers were sounding like a great idea right about now. A few pills, a few sips of something strong and maybe he could pass out for a few hours. He shifted and pulled the door open, knowing it would be too much to hope that things would be better when he woke up.

Sighing, Sam flipped the light off and braced a hand on the door jamb for a few seconds until he was certain he wouldn't fall over. His footsteps were quiet as he slowly walked down the hallway. The house was silent. Still. He caught a glimpse of the snow falling outside the window and remembered it was almost Christmas. And then he remembered _last_ Christmas and the pain wasn't limited to his back.

His heart hurt.

Last year he hadn't wanted anything to do with Christmas. Because it was going to be their last Christmas and he'd already been dealing with enough _lasts._ He'd wanted to skip it altogether and maybe not have a painful memory to reflect on when he sat around at night knowing his brother was rotting in hell because of him.

But Dean had wanted Christmas. He'd wanted it badly enough that, after a lot of hesitation, Sam had finally given it to him wholeheartedly and gladly. So they'd had Christmas together and, a few months later, Sam had that painful memory to reflect on while he tried to drown himself in the liquor. At the lowest, worst time in his life, he'd found himself beginning to realize the memory of that Christmas was as much a balm to his aching soul as it was a painful, throbbing illustration of everything he'd lost.

Now, watching the snowflakes drifting down outside, Sam wanted it again.

He wanted what they'd had last Christmas. Wanted to share the day with his brother. Wanted it to be just them. No outside forces. No angels. No demons. No one and nothing else. Exactly like it had been so often in their lives.

Just the two of them.

He was under no illusion that it would be easy or that it would even be possible, but Sam determined in this moment that he would do whatever it took to make this Christmas a good one. For that, he knew he needed to be willing to shelve some of his own issues and stubbornness. Maybe Dean would reciprocate. Maybe he wouldn't. Either way, it was worth a try.

Mind made up, Sam started moving again. He couldn't hear any sounds of movement which might mean Dean had crashed on the couch or, even better, in a bed. A few steps later and he rounded the corner to the study. The couch was empty. Turning to the kitchen, he found his brother slumped over the table.

He could see Dean's back rising and falling with steady breaths, but it only partially alleviated his concern. Pausing in the doorway because his back decided to choose this moment to lock up, Sam called out, "Dean?"

It took a few seconds, then he saw Dean twitch a bit and heard a muffled, "Huh?"

"You takin' a nap?" Sam asked, working on his breathing and trying to take another step forward.

"Mmm."

Well, that was a good answer. He hobbled over to the table and wished he could lean down to do something to help his brother. Wished he could sit down because he was tired of standing up. Instead of doing anything he wanted, he wound up standing there helplessly as he said, "You need to move. Bed. Come on."

Dean rolled his head back and forth a couple times and groaned.

"Staying there isn't an option." Sam felt more than a little desperate. He reached down but caught himself before he could touch Dean's shoulder. The way he was sitting, Sam could only reach one shoulder and of course it was the wrecked one. Again feeling utterly helpless, Sam said, "Dean. Please. You...you gotta work with me here, man. I can't drag you to a bed, but you gotta lay down."

He received an inarticulate grunt in reply, followed by a mumble that sounded suspiciously like a string of four letter words. But then Dean was pushing himself upright. Slowly. Painfully. He was still partially hunched over the table and his breathing was unsteady when he said, "You're just as irritating as you were when you were six. Just as persistent, too."

Sam held his breath, uncertain how he should take Dean's statement.

Dean finally straightened up the rest of the way and looked at him. There was a hint of a smile in his eyes as he said, "Never wanted to let me sleep in on Saturday."

Beginning to breathe again, Sam relaxed a degree and said, "I couldn't help it that _Sesame Street_ was on before you wanted to get out of bed."

"Not sure I ever wanna get outta bed again," Dean said, with a grimace and sharp intake of breath as he wrapped his hand around his injured arm.

"Well, you gotta get _into_ bed if you're gonna not ever get out again."

Dean's eyebrows rose and he honest to goodness laughed. He was white as a ghost and clearly in pain, but he grinned. "That was possibly one of the most ridiculous sentences I've ever heard from you."

Sam thought it made perfect sense, but, hey, if it amused Dean, he was ok with it. He prompted, "So. How about you go lay down?"

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"There's no food."

"None?" Sam looked over at the fridge, discouraged and dumbfounded. "No food?"

"Not unless you wanna have pickles a la mustard with a side of onion."

"What?"

"With whipped cream on top?" Dean offered as if that made anything better.

Sam shook his head. "That's it?"

Dean motioned to a can of soda on the table. "Mother Hubbard doesn't even have beer in the cupboard."

They stared at each other for a minute, then Sam said, "Ok. Ok. One thing at a time. You take your pills? You should've taken them an hour ago."

He'd been paying attention to the time but, given how he'd been receiving the silent treatment from his brother the entire trip, Sam had kept his mouth shut.

"I'll take 'em now." Dean reached out and started fiddling with the bag of medications on the table. "You need to take-"

"I will. But later. I'm ok right now and I gotta go get us food."

"You're not-"

"I am. We don't have a choice so stop arguing and take your pills." Some tension slipped out and Sam wished he'd been able to keep it hidden. He didn't want to start a fight. Didn't want to break the tenuous peace they'd achieved.

Dean struggled with one of the pill bottles. "We'll order a pizza."

"You want to eat a pizza? Right now, does a pizza even sound remotely good?" Sam shook his head, watching as Dean finally got the lid off the bottle.

Dean took the pills with a swig of Diet Coke, then met Sam's eyes. "I don't want a pizza."

 _Honesty._

Sam was surprised. "Neither do I. Look. Go lay down. You look terrible. I'll go grab some stuff and be back before your happy pills wear off."

* * *

Dean didn't want to do what Sam was telling him to do. For several reasons. For one thing he didn't appreciate being bossed around. For another, he didn't like the idea of Sam going anywhere. Because these days he was never sure if Sam would be coming back or not. It was a horrible way to feel, but Dean couldn't help it.

"Dean. Seriously. It won't take me that long to grab some supplies and get back here."

"Your back," Dean said, swallowing down a sudden wave of nausea. When had his head started to hurt like this?

"I'll survive. We need food. And you need to lay down."

"Scratch the paint and I'm gonna punch you on purpose this time," Dean muttered, handing the keys to his brother.

Sam offered a faint smile. "You gonna make it-"

"I got it. Get outta here before the snow gets any worse." Dean tried to make it sound like an order but was pretty sure it didn't come out the way he'd intended.

For a moment, he thought Sam might argue with him, then he just nodded, pulled his coat on with difficulty, and headed for the door. Dean sat there at the table until he couldn't hear the roar of the Impala's engine any longer. Once it had faded, he pushed himself to his feet with a degree of difficulty that made him very grateful Sam wasn't around to witness it. Reaching the doorway, he paused, considering the couch. It was closer. But he knew he wasn't going to be comfortable. Knew he would probably fall asleep anyway.

Decision made, he walked slowly toward the couch, catching the sight of the snow falling heavier than it had been when they'd arrived. He was really beginning to hate himself for not having stopped somewhere earlier for food. The thought of Sam out there on the snowy roads alone worried him. With the way things had been going lately, he'd never be able to forgive himself if anything happened to his brother. If anything happened to him while he wasn't even sure Dean still cared.

Sinking down onto the couch, Dean thought about the expression Sam had worn all too much lately: uncertainty. Sure, most of the time he was strutting around all big and strong with his _better than thou_ attitude. But in between, when they weren't arguing, when Ruby wasn't in the picture, when Castiel wasn't around, Dean had seen how much of Sam's act was just that.

An act.

Not all the time, that was obvious. Because Sam _did_ think he was doing the right thing. And he did think that he knew best. And he had ten times the attitude he'd ever had at his worst as a teenager. But somewhere underneath it all, Dean could sometimes catch a glimpse of the little brother he'd left behind. The one he'd died for.

There was a part of Sam that clearly didn't know if Dean even still cared.

It bothered him, but Dean knew he hadn't exactly been working very hard to do anything to convince Sam otherwise. They were both angry; and Dean felt like _he_ had some very good reasons to be angry. Right now, though, Dean was just tired. He was tired of fighting angels, demons and everything in between.

He was tired of fighting his brother.

Pressing a hand to his side as he tried to lay down on the couch, Dean remembered it was almost Christmas. Closing his eyes, heart heavy with regret, he fell asleep trying to decide if it were possible for them to have the day to themselves without any interruption from angels, demons and everything in between.

* * *

The drive was the worst part. Not because of the weather but because sitting down was torture and every minute he was behind the wheel only increased his pain another notch. The weather was actually decent. Big, fat, fluffy snowflakes drifted down from the cloudy sky but the roads were still clear. It was picture perfect, he thought morosely as he parked the car in front of the nearest grocery store.

Sam dragged himself out of the car, glad no one was near enough to hear his gasp of pain or pay attention to how long he stood there, clinging to the top of the car. By the time he'd recovered enough to move, the flakes were tumbling down faster and he was feeling chilled. Slamming the door, he hurried as best he could with a limp and a stiff back to the entrance. As he had been driving, he'd made a mental list of what he should get. Staples. Basics. The bare minimum they would need to survive a day or two before heading out again.

And then he walked into the store and his mental list evaporated.

The store was decorated for the holidays and Christmas music was playing and the entire place was filled with amazing smells. Sam tightened his grip on the handle of the shopping cart he'd grabbed on his way in and stared straight ahead at the display of all the finest holiday treats the store had to offer.

The first thing he added to his brand new mental list was pie.

Moving forward, he stared at the display and it took a full minute, in which his mouth literally began watering, to decide on a pumpkin and an apple pie. There were loaves of fresh bread and he grabbed two along with a carton of holiday cookies purely because he knew Dean would tease him about them.

Something relaxed in his chest as he studied the display. There was no way they were up to doing a bunch of cooking so he grabbed a couple cartons of sliced turkey and a big container of fresh made mashed potatoes. Cans of cranberry sauce, cans of gravy (which Dean was no doubt going to complain about) followed along with a few cans of green beans (which Dean was _definitely_ going to complain about).

Staring into the cart, Sam felt oddly pleased with his ability to put together a holiday meal on the fly. Thanks in no small part to the grocery store that catered to lazy people or those who just couldn't cook. Regardless, they were going to be eating the best meal they'd had in ages. Pushing the cart forward, he tried to remember what else he'd been thinking about picking up before the holiday display had robbed him of coherent thought.

A few pieces of fruit, a few cans of soup (just in case), frozen pizzas for later, whipped cream for the pies, beer (of course), eggnog, rum, and a few dozen other assorted supplies filled the cart up and he could feel the strain in his back. Walking had been much better than sitting at first. But he knew he needed to wrap it up soon. He also knew he'd been away longer than he'd intended and the thought of his brother back at Bobby's on his own and injured sent Sam hurrying to the cashier.

By the time he'd loaded everything into the car, he was almost breathless with the pain. Dropping awkwardly, painfully, into the seat, Sam pulled the bottle of extra-strength Tylenol he'd bought out of his pocket and dry swallowed three. Starting the car up, he turned the heat on high and let the car warm up before he attempted to go anywhere. He was shivering so badly and hurting so much that attempting to drive right now would be a dangerous thing to do. So he sat there and watched the snow fall and worried about his brother.

When he finally felt like he was safe enough to drive, Sam eased the car out onto the snowy road and aimed it for Bobby's place. He saw people out in their heavy winter clothes, walking between the stores with bags of Christmas presents in their hands and cheerful smiles on their faces. The hardware store had a huge selection of Christmas trees on display and, even sitting in the car, he could hear the Christmas music playing from the speakers. There were Christmas lights everywhere and it made him feel lonely and a little jealous of everyone who lived a normal life and had family and friends to spend time with at the holidays. He was driving back to the home of one of the only friends they had-who wasn't even _at_ home-to spend the holiday with the only family member he had left.

A family member he wasn't sure even wanted to be associated with him anymore.

* * *

Dean felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice he thought he'd never hear again. The heat of hell swathed him in suffocating tendrils, but the hand didn't go away and neither did the voice.

"You're dreaming. Wake up. Come on, Dean."

He frowned. It sounded like Sam was real. Like he was right there next to him and that hurt more than any torture they'd thrown at him yet. Sam wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be safe. Alive. Dean forced his eyes open, fully expecting them to be plucked out with a meat hook. Instead, he felt a hand on his cheek, guiding his gaze, and he stared at Sam.

His entire body stiffened in terror. Sam wasn't supposed to be here! He shook his head, shouting, "No!"

"Dean, it's real. We're at Bobby's. Come on, snap out of it." Sam sounded pushy and worried and not like he was in hell.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, his lips cracked and dry and painful.

The face that looked so much like his brother crumpled a little and there were tears in the apparition's eyes as he said, "Right here."

"Not 'pposed t'be." He tried to force the words out clearly, but his throat hurt as bad as the rest of him.

Sam, or whatever it was, shook his head and patted Dean's cheek again as he said, "You're sick. You've got a fever. Ok? Not hell. You're on the floor at Bobby's place."

"Bobby?" Dean whispered, tearing his eyes away from the face in front of him until he could take a good look around. It _did_ look like Bobby's place. And the floor was hard. And everything hurt. He tilted his head and found the edge of the couch just to his left. Looking back at the thing... _Sam_ , Dean blinked and realized it might be real. He swallowed hard and asked, "Why'm I on th'floor?"

"You were having a nightmare and you...I don't know, you were fighting with something I guess." Sam ran a hand over his face and shrugged. "I just heard you hit the floor and came running."

Dean narrowed his eyes for a second, then reality truly slammed into him and he remembered the nightmare that had led up to this moment of finding himself on the floor. Forcing the memory to the back of his mind, he shook his head. Focused on something else.

He looked up at Sam and said, "You didn't run."

"Alright. So I hobbled here. Quickly." Sam offered a weak smile. "Sort of quickly."

He snorted at Sam's specificity and lifted his right hand to press against his head for a few seconds before muttering, "Need to get off the floor."

"Yeah. You do."

Together they managed to get him upright and leaning back against the couch. It took a lot of cursing, breathless gasps and no small amount of pain on both of their parts to get him actually _onto_ the couch. Sitting there, fighting back the groans of pain that he still wanted to make, Dean was shoulder to shoulder with his brother and it felt right again. He knew it wouldn't last, but he was going to do everything he could to prolong it.

"How long?" he asked, eyes closed.

"You were sleeping maybe six hours."

"You were gone for six hours?" Dean opened his eyes and tilted his head until he could stare at his brother.

Sam had his eyes closed, but his lips twitched into a smile. "I wasn't gone for six hours."

"Why'd you let me-"

"Because you needed to. Would have been smarter if you'd crashed in a bed, but I wasn't gonna wake you up."

They fell silent for a few minutes, then Dean asked, "You get food?"

"No."

"What?"

"Of course I got food." Sam laughed and it sounded good. "You hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good. Soup or sandwich?"

"Uh-"

"It's a turkey sandwich. Got one waiting for you if you want it. The soup...it's just from a can. Sorry. Or there's pizza. I could-"

"Sandwich," Dean interrupted Sam's nervous rambling. Pizza still didn't sound good at all and he wasn't anywhere near sick enough to be ok with eating soup out of a can.

"Ok. Sit tight." Sam tapped him on the shoulder with the remote, then pushed himself to his feet gingerly.

Dean studied him. "Back's still not any better?"

"It's better," Sam said as he limped away. "Doesn't mean it still doesn't hurt."

Watching him go, Dean considered how appropriate his words were to their lives. Things were better, he supposed. Better than him being alone in hell down below and Sam being alone in hell up here.

Things were better, but it didn't mean it still didn't hurt.

Dean sighed. Flipping the tv on, he channel hopped until he found _Home Alone_. Leaving it there, he stole a glance outside and saw that the view was almost completely white. The snow wasn't intermittent, delicately falling flakes now. It was blowing hard against the house and he could only catch glimpses of the Impala through the whiteout.

"It's supposed to get worse," Sam said, offering a plate.

Dean took the plate as Sam set a bottle of water on the table next to him. He looked down at a sandwich that looked surprisingly appetizing. There was a small mountain of pills next to it. There was no reason to put up a fuss because he was hurting enough that he was ready for the pain killers and he didn't need a thermometer to know how high his fever was. Balancing the plate on his lap, he picked up the pills and swallowed them down with a swig of water. Once that was accomplished, he was about to eat the sandwich, but realized Sam was just standing there.

"You gonna stand there and watch me eat?" he asked. Sam didn't respond, wearing the uncertain look that Dean didn't like. "Did you take your own pills?"

"Yeah."

"You ate?"

"Awhile ago."

"Then sit down. You're making me uncomfortable."

Sam hesitated, but moved toward the couch and Dean realized some of his hesitation might have been about how much it was going to hurt him to sit down again. But he sat down anyway and Dean might have imagined it, but he thought it was a little easier on him than it had been earlier.

Once his brother was settled next to him, Dean turned the volume up on the movie and started eating his sandwich. Sam wasn't exactly a good cook and all he'd done was slap some turkey between a couple pieces of actually very tasty bread. But that didn't matter.

Because Dean was just grateful he still had a brother to slap some turkey between a couple pieces of bread.

* * *

There was a certain awkwardness in sitting on Bobby's couch and watching a Christmas movie together. It wasn't the first time they'd done this, but it had been a long time. And things weren't exactly amicable between them these days. Dean was back, but everything in their world was broken around them.

Sam's eyes burned and he stared through the tv, trying not to blink. He couldn't lift his hand to wipe his eyes if a tear fell because then Dean would know. Even if he could pawn it off on the way his back was hurting, he didn't want to show that much weakness in front of his brother.

The brother he had tried - and failed - to live without for four months.

He'd never thought he would be sitting next to Dean again. Sam tried to think of something to say, but no matter what he thought of he dismissed it quickly because he knew it would probably be a mistake. So they sat there, almost shoulder to shoulder, as Kevin tried to protect his house from thieves and Dean ate his turkey sandwich. They didn't comment on his methods of home protection. Didn't point out what they would have done differently. And nothing made either of them laugh even though usually this was one of Dean's favorite movies.

Dean finished his sandwich during the third set of commercials and set the plate aside. Sam considered asking him if he wanted anything else, but still kept his mouth shut. It surprised him when Dean spoke a moment later.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" The word came out more of a squeak than anything else.

"Good sandwich. Tell me you bought beer."

"Yeah."

"And rum?"

"I did."

"Good." Dean shifted a bit, holding his arm close. "You're in charge of the egg nog."

Sam snuck a peek at him. Dean wasn't looking at him, but he did have a slight smile on his face; probably thinking about last Christmas. It relaxed him another degree and Sam looked back at the tv as he asked, "You want some now?"

"Hell yes." Dean groaned, slumping down and resting his head on the back of the couch. "But probably should wait till tomorrow. Got some good drugs."

Raising an eyebrow, Sam looked at him and smiled. Dean was slouched in on himself, still not comfortable, but some of the tension from earlier had dissipated and he probably could fall asleep any time now. About to suggest he go upstairs to a bed, Sam was, yet again, interrupted before he could open his mouth.

"We should get a tree."

Sam's jaw dropped. He stole another peek at his brother, found Dean with his eyes closed, still holding his injured arm. For a moment, he silently considered Dean's statement and wondered if it was-

"Not b'cuz of t'drugs." Dean's voice was soft and he was being lazy about separating his words which made Sam want to get him to a bed sooner rather than later. When he didn't say anything, Dean cracked an eye open and said more clearly, "Let's just get one, ok?"

Nodding, Sam immediately began wondering how they were going to get a tree when both of them were more or less out of commission.

"Never mind. Stupid idea," Dean muttered, pushing himself upright.

Realizing his silence had been interpreted as hesitation, Sam blurted out, "The hardware store has a bunch of pre-cut trees. We could go tomorrow."

Dean turned to meet his gaze and smiled. It reached his eyes this time and Sam smiled back.

With a nod, Dean pushed himself to his feet and asked, "You gonna make it up the stairs ok?"

"Yeah. I got it."

"Ok. Don't stay up too late or Santa won't come."

"It's not Christmas Eve yet," Sam said, attention returning to the tv. "Besides we already agreed that I don't rate the nice list this year."

He waited to hear Dean walking away but, after several seconds of waiting, Dean hadn't moved. Dragging his gaze away from the tv, Sam frowned up at his brother and asked, "You ok? Need something?"

For a second, it seemed like Dean was going to answer him, then he just shook his head and walked away.

Sam sighed and turned back to the tv. He'd give Dean some time to get settled before he went upstairs.

* * *

 _Christmas Eve_  
 _2:10 AM_

Dean woke up feeling overheated and disoriented. It took a few seconds of focused thought before it all came back to him. He rolled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair as he glanced at the clock and yawned. Just after two in the morning. He'd slept like a rock, but now that he was awake, he remembered all too well how much everything hurt.

 _Probably should put the sling on,_ he thought to himself pressing his good hand to the sore joint.

He knew he had a fever. Some Tylenol and more of the good painkillers sounded fabulous right now. Even with the thought of falling back into drugged oblivion, it took a few minutes for him to feel motivated enough to move. His head felt better-ish. Not quite like it was being hammered into pieces. As he rose from the edge of the bed, Dean felt the pull of the stitches in his side and knew he should probably take a look under the bandage that he'd put on after his shower yesterday morning.

So he dragged himself to the bathroom to check the wound and take care of other pressing issues. By the time he'd finished, his headache had doubled from the exertion and he had a fresh, if very haphazard bandage over the wound in his side that was most definitely not infected. Nope. Not even a little.

Trying to be quiet so as not to wake his brother, Dean crept down the stairs. The house felt colder than earlier and he decided to turn up the heat on his way to the kitchen. And then he paused at the foot of the steps when he heard noises from the living room. Frowning, he headed that direction, realizing the tv was still on. Assuming Sam must have forgotten to turn it off before going to bed, Dean made his way to the living room.

He froze in the doorway.

Sam was sitting on the couch, exactly where he'd left him earlier. His head was tilted back and Dean wasn't sure what to make of the silent tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn't look comfortable so maybe it was tears of pain again? If so, then he needed to wake him up, give him meds and get him to bed.

Taking a step forward, he saw the glint of light off the bottle in Sam's hand. There was an empty bottle next to him on the couch and one on the floor. Narrowing his eyes, Dean realized someone had been having a party without him. He really hoped Sam had bought more than one six pack considering he was already halfway through one.

Dean froze when Sam shouted his name loud enough it probably woke Bobby up four states away.

He lifted a hand out in front of him as if reaching for something and, suddenly, Dean knew exactly what his brother was dreaming about. By the time Sam was down to hoarse whispers of _please_ and _Dean, I'm sorry_ , he decided it was time to intervene.

"Sam." Dean crossed the room, giving Sam's shoulder a shake and lifting his voice to be heard over the tv. "Sam, wake up. It's just a dream, it's over. I'm right here."

"Dean!" Sam's eyes snapped open and he gasped. He dropped the bottle and reached out with both hands for Dean's shirt.

Bracing himself, Dean bit back a groan of pain as Sam's grip tugged on his shoulder. Sam was looking at him, but Dean wasn't sure he was _seeing_ him yet. He tried again, lowering his voice to a gentle tone as he said, "I'm right here, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam whispered this time. He released his grip on Dean's shirt and pressed his hands to his face.

Straightening up, Dean rubbed his eyes. For a moment, the only sound was the wind blowing outside and the infomercial playing on the tv behind him. Dean wanted a handful of meds and a warm bed. He wanted to go back to a time when things were simpler and there wasn't a wall of distrust between them. He wanted to go back to a time when neither of them had been forced to watch their brother die.

Sighing, he stared out the window for a few seconds, before turning his attention back to Sam.

He'd pulled himself together and was sitting there silently with a mortified expression on his face. Dean decided it was too early in the morning to care if Sam were embarrassed or not. Wasn't like _he_ hadn't already had his own embarrassing nightmare. At least Sam hadn't wound up falling on the floor.

"You need help getting up?" he asked, guessing that Sam was probably going to be in a world of pain when he moved considering how long he'd been sitting there.

Sam didn't answer. He was staring at the floor, eyes still bright.

"Ok," Dean said to fill the silence. "I'm going to get us both some meds and then we're going to bed. To an _actual_ bed."

Dean turned and left the room, hoping Sam could get up on his own. Because he wasn't sure he could be any help as much as he wanted to be. So he walked toward the kitchen, listening to Sam's muffled moans of pain as he tried to get off the couch. Hearing Sam bump into something and curse had Dean smiling bitterly.

 _Sucks to be half-drunk at two am, doesn't it, Sammy?_

Five minutes later, he had swallowed down his pills with a swig of tap water. Filling the mug up again, he grabbed the second pile of pills off the table and slowly walked back to the living room. Sam was on his feet and halfway to the stairs, swaying and stumbling. He paused when Dean approached and accepted the pills and mug of water without a word.

Dean set the mug down on an empty spot on the nearest book case and followed Sam up the stairs. Neither of them were moving quickly and it took forever to get to the top. Sam headed into the second bedroom and Dean headed for the linen closet. After sorting through Bobby's spare gun cache and a pile of hand towels, Dean grabbed the heating pad. Stumbling back to the bedroom, he found Sam perched on the edge of the bed.

"Heating pad," Dean said, holding it up.

Sam nodded and lay down on his stomach while Dean hunted around for an outlet to plug in the heating pad. It took him several minutes to accomplish the excruciatingly simple task. Finally settling the heating pad on Sam's back, Dean was ready to be unconscious and Sam looked out for the count. Dean dragged the blanket up over his brother and put the controls to the heating pad next to Sam's hand. Having done what he could to make his brother comfortable, Dean walked away. He paused at the door when he heard a broken voice behind him call his name.

"Yeah?" he asked, turning slightly, but not going back.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

The pain in his brother's voice broke what was left of his heart and Dean had to choke back his own emotion as he said, "You tried, Sammy. I know you tried. I don't blame you for any of it."

He waited a few seconds, but all he heard were Sam's suspiciously unsteady breaths. Dean left the door open and crossed the hall to the bathroom. Grabbing a washcloth, he soaked it in cold water, then stumbled toward the other room. Easing down onto the bed, Dean pulled the covers over himself and pressed the washcloth to his eyes.

* * *

 **Looks like there are two more chapters ahead. It was supposed to be 6 chapters...but I got wordy again lol. Not sure if I'll be able to post ch 6 later tonight or not, but hoping to post the final chapter on Christmas Day. :) Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hope you all had a great Christmas Eve! Let's see how the boys are doing on their own Christmas Eve...**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 6**_

 _Christmas Eve  
_ _Morning_

The wind was rattling against the window and the snow swirled beyond it. Sam stared out the window for a moment, then pulled another shirt over his head. His back pain had eased a bit after the hot shower and he now was fully awake. And fully aware of his hangover. He also was aware that something smelled wonderful. And now that he'd noticed the smells, his stomach was growling. Starting toward the stairs, he pressed a fist to his pounding head.

Aspirin went to the top of his list. Followed closely by coffee and food.

Reaching the stairs, he found that he didn't have nearly as much trouble walking down them as he had the previous evening. The twinge was still there and he knew he needed to be careful or he'd be in trouble again, but at least he could move. From the sounds of it, Dean was in the kitchen and Sam hoped that meant his brother felt better today. He wasn't counting on it if course, because Dean would be doing what he was doing even if he _didn't_ feel better just to prove a point.

Or just because he was hungry.

The floorboards creaked under Sam's feet as he stepped into the kitchen. The whistle of the wind outside almost covered the sound, but Dean heard it and turned around.

"Mornin."

"Hey," Sam answered, returning Dean's smile, then looking past him to the stove. "Smells great."

"Course it smells great. It's bacon." Dean's grin grew wider. "You bought bacon."

"I bought a lot of stuff."

"I saw that." Dean pointed a finger at the table.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You already had a piece of pie?"

Dean turned back to the stove and held up two fingers.

Looking back at the pie, Sam shook his head.

"Don't judge. Pie is the breakfast of champions." Dean looked over his shoulder and asked, "Plannin' a holiday feast?"

"I just thought...I don't know, it all looked good." Sam wished his words had come out less unsteady.

"Hey, I'm not complainin'." Dean grinned again, expertly serving up the bacon and eggs onto two plates. "How's the back?"

"I'm moving."

"Caught that," Dean said, holding out a plate. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Sam accepted the plate as Dean poured two cups of coffee. Sitting down at the table was still difficult and pulled at his back, but at least he could do it without groaning this time. Dean set a cup of coffee in front of him and joined him at the table.

"How bad's the hangover?" Dean asked around a mouthful of eggs.

Sam shrugged. "How's your head?"

"Attached."

They ate in silence, watching the blowing snow outside. Sam tried to think of something to say, but nothing seemed right so he kept his mouth shut. It had been a long time since they'd had a comfortable silence between them. It always felt like it was filled with lies. He stared down at his empty plate.

"Want more?" Dean interrupted his thoughts.

"Nah. Tasted great, though."

Dean smiled, looking very proud of himself. "Yes, it did."

They both fell silent again and stared out the window. Dean cleared his throat and said, "So I'm thinking we should go sooner rather than later."

"Go where?" Sam stared at him blankly.

"To the hardware store. You said they had trees, right?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. You were serious? About getting a tree?"

"Why not?" Dean leaned back in his chair. "What else do we have to do today?"

"I don't know. Nothing I guess."

"Exactly." Dean rubbed his forehead. "We both need some time to lay low. Might as well have something festive to stare at while we kill that bottle of rum tonight."

"Deal."

Dean pushed his chair back and took the plates out to the sink. "Weather's supposed to get worse as the day goes on. Let's go now."  
"Ok."

Sam was still more than a little surprised that Dean was interested in getting a Christmas tree. But they were speaking to each other and since that was a small Christmas miracle in and of itself, he wasn't going to do anything to destroy the peace.

So they cleaned up the kitchen together because if there was one thing Bobby hated it was dirty dishes piled up. Once they finished, they went for their coats. Sam kept his mouth shut even when he wanted to suggest that maybe Dean should put the sling on. He was obviously favoring his shoulder and his injured side. From the tightness around his eyes, Sam knew he was hurting.

Even so, he didn't dare suggest the sling and silently followed Dean down the steps. The cold air stung his cheeks and whipped through his hair and he decided they should probably shovel the steps at some point, but it didn't seem important right now.

They went down the steps, both of them moving more slowly and gingerly than they would normally. Sam started toward the passenger side, stopping when Dean held out the keys. "Not sure I can handle her in this weather with the arm outta commission."

Sam accepted the keys and didn't comment. If Dean was voluntarily surrendering the keys, he was obviously feeling bad.

The trip was silent and the silence still didn't feel comfortable, but it didn't feel as oppressive as it had the past few weeks. By the time they reached the hardware store, Sam was feeling relaxed and Dean seemed to be feeling better, too. Sam parked the car and Dean grinned.

"We are gettin' a big one."

Sam smiled. "Are you serious?"

Dean waved his good hand in front of his face and said, "This is my serious face."

"That's your only face." Sam rolled his eyes and got out of the car.

They walked toward the display of trees and Sam couldn't deny that there wasn't a certain element of this that he was enjoying. It was cold and that wasn't doing anything for his back, but there were lights on the buildings and music playing and a bunch of kids running around and it felt festive. He didn't remember _ever_ going to pick out a Christmas tree like this. But Dean was grinning and inspecting every tree he came near like he'd been doing it his entire life.

Sam followed him, amused at Dean's enthusiasm. He stood patiently beside his brother as Dean had a very serious discussion with a ten year old on which tree had the better symmetry of branches. The kid's parents stood back and exchanged a smile with Sam as Dean and the kid finally agreed on the same tree. The kid got his tree and Dean looked happy to have shared his unexpectedly astute tree shopping expertise.

They browsed a few more aisles, pausing now and then to allow Dean time to size up a tree's potential. Sam didn't say anything, but simply followed Dean's lead. His amusement with the tree hunt waned as his steps slowed and his back seized up every few minutes. It was getting colder and the cold only made him more tense. He didn't know why they were even here. They were in the middle of a war with enemies on both sides and he didn't know how decorating a Christmas tree made any sense.

A smack on his arm drew his attention and he turned to look at his brother. Dean's eyes were narrowed and he seemed annoyed as he said, "You are being abnormally quiet."

Sam shrugged, hands in his pockets. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know." Dean stared at him for a moment and Sam could tell he was irritated. Then Dean broke out in a huge grin. "But if you don't say anything, I'm gonna have the final say in what tree we get."

"You aren't joking about this, are you?"

Dean's eyebrows rose. He waved his good hand around. "You think I just like walking around, freezing to death for the fun of it?"

"So you're gonna put a tree on top of the Impala?" Sam asked dubiously, watching as the light began to dawn in Dean's eyes.

"We've got a tarp in the trunk. Tie downs too." Dean sounded matter of fact. He shrugged and pointed at a tree nestled at the end of a row between a scrubby looking fir tree and the side of the building. "That one."

Dean was smiling again. He looked positively thrilled.

Sam followed him again. If Dean wanted a tree, who was he to stand in the way? Dean was already wrestling with the tree and Sam almost wanted to roll his eyes and walk away because with one arm out of commission, Dean wasn't exactly winning the battle. With his own back one wrong move from disaster, lugging a tree didn't sound like a good idea to Sam. But there was something in Dean's expression that had Sam walking over and assisting even though it hurt to do so.

For whatever reason, Dean wanted a Christmas tree. He _needed_ a Christmas tree. So Sam was going to at least do that for him since he hadn't done much else lately except screw up.

"Think Bobby's got any lights?" Dean asked, grunting as he tugged at the tree and bumped into the side of the building.

"I have no idea. We should just buy a string while we're here." Sam let Dean lean down to grab the base of tree. Once Dean had it, Sam caught the top of the tree.

Dean groaned as he straightened, the heavier end of the tree in his good hand; his left arm held closely to his chest. Sam wanted to switch places with him but there was no way he could bend down and pick up the bottom of the tree. Holding the top was already straining his back. They made it a few steps before Dean spoke up again.

"I'm sure he's got lights in the attic."

"And if he doesn't?" Sam countered, "I'm not coming back to town again in a snowstorm."

They paused, both needing to catch their breaths.

Glaring at each other over the pine needles, Dean relented first. "Fine. I'll get the guy to tie up the tree. You go find some shiny lights, Martha Stewart."

"Shut up." Sam tugged the tree forward and Dean came along, his face damp with sweat and showing the strain he was under.

By the time they made it to the check out, both of them were panting and more than happy to let the high school marching band students take over shaking the tree free from dead needles and wrapping it up in a net. Sam left Dean to pay for the tree and assure it was fastened to the Impala safely.

He walked into the hardware store and headed for the aisle with the Christmas decorations. Which, of course, was the busiest aisle. It was picked over and disheveled; not unexpected considering it was the day before Christmas. It took him five minutes to find a decent string of colored lights and a red garland.

He skipped the tree toppers because somehow the thought of an angel staring down at him didn't sound appealing.

A pack of six multi-colored ornaments was the finishing touch because he knew he was about out of cash and he also didn't want to shove his way through the fifteen angry housewives that were in the aisle fighting over tinsel.

Sam headed toward the front of the store and it was only when he reached the checkout line that it occurred to him he had no present to give to his brother. Standing there, Christmas music playing and happy people all around, he felt the burn of tears as his thoughts drifted back to the previous Christmas and the heartfelt if somewhat pathetic presents they'd given each other. Money had been an issue their entire lives and gift giving had never really been their thing but they'd always tried.

He didn't know what to do.

Standing in line, he turned in a circle, eyes roving the store. There might be enough money in his pocket-if he put back the garland- to get something, but what was he going to find in a hardware store? A new knife? Sure, maybe. Somehow, it didn't seem right. Sam didn't know if a gift of any sort would be appreciated at this point.

He didn't have any idea what he should buy and the line was already taking forever so Sam just stood there behind a woman in a huge red hat. She smelled like she was wearing three different perfumes. By the time he'd paid and was walking back outside, he thought he might die from the fumes. Coughing, he sucked in fresh air and hurried, as quickly as he was able to hurry these days, back to where he'd parked the Impala.

Dean was sitting in the passenger seat and the car was running and had a Christmas tree tied on top and Sam couldn't help but smile at the surreal sight. He walked carefully down the snowy sidewalk and almost slipped as he stepped off the curb. Catching himself on the car, he struggled forward the last few feet. Opening the door, he pitched the bag inside and took a deep breath before trying to sit down.

"You get the lights?" Dean asked as soon as the door opened.

Sam pulled his door closed and raised an eyebrow. Dean was already going through the bag so apparently he had his answer. Shifting the car into drive, Sam asked, "Those meet your standards?"

"This a long enough string?" Dean held it up with a frown. He was studying the back of the box as if it were a new exorcism he was learning.

"I don't know. I just grabbed what they had. It was pretty picked over."

"At least they're colored. Colored are better." Dean put the lights back in the bag and pulled out the package of ornaments. He studied them just as intently as he had the string of lights.

Sam smiled at the satisfaction in his brother's voice. This was the first he'd ever heard of Dean having an opinion on the color of Christmas lights. It didn't really surprise him though. Dean had an opinion on just about everything.

"Anything else we need?" Sam asked before they went too far. The food situation was pretty well covered but if Dean wanted something else out of the ordinary then he wanted to know now. Before they drove all the way back to Bobby's and had to turn around.

"You said you got rum, right?"

"Yeah." Sam glanced at his brother. Dean was rubbing his head, eyes squeezed closed. "You alright?"

"Yeah." Dean didn't open his eyes or stop rubbing his head.

"Headache?"

"Yes, Einstein," Dean snapped, lowering his hand. He folded his arms across his chest. "Stop harping at me, will you?"

Sam bit his tongue to hold back any and all comments. Because whatever he said now would be the wrong thing and he honestly didn't feel like getting into a fight. So he kept his mouth shut and drove them back to Bobby's place as the snow fell all around them.

* * *

Dean knew he'd overdone it.

He'd known from the moment he woke up in the morning that _anything_ he would do today would be more than he could handle. The headache had been muted earlier although still very present. The more he'd moved, the more his side hurt and he really, really should have put the sling on.

The trip back to Bobby's was silent.

He didn't feel like chatting, but he also thought keeping his eyes on the road and helping Sam watch for any issues along the way was a better idea than starting to talk and ending up in a fight and then in a ditch. The snow was much heavier now and neither of them were at the top of their game. Sam seemed to be moving a little easier now, but Dean could tell he was still hurting.

He started regretting his stupid idea of getting the tree a few minutes after they'd left town, and by the time Sam pulled the car up close to the porch, Dean was ready just to leave it on the top of the car and forget the entire thing. He didn't know what he'd been thinking. They'd only had a real Christmas tree a handful of times in their entire lives. And now, of all times. Of _all_ times, he'd decided now was the time to suggest getting a Christmas tree.

Now, with angels on one side, demons on another and the two of them caught in the middle of it all.

Getting out of the car, Dean held onto the door for a few seconds, dizziness winning out over his desire to get warm.

"You ok?"

"Yeah." Dean blinked through the snowflakes and saw Sam wrestling with the tie downs on the tree. "What're you doing?"

"What's it look like?" Sam stared at him over the car and the tree.

"Just leave it."

"What are you talking about?"

"You heard me. Leave it." Dean slammed the car door and tried to maintain his balance as he walked through the snow toward the porch.

"Dean?"

He paused and looked back at his brother. "What?"

"We're not leaving the tree out here. I bought lights."

Dean almost laughed at the near whine in his brother's voice. He sighed and decided he might as well help haul the tree inside because if he didn't, Sam clearly intended to do it on his own. _Because he bought lights,_ Dean rolled his eyes. The only good thing about any of this was that the cold air was doing something to help reduce the way he felt like he was burning up.

Of all the times to be wrestling with a Christmas tree.

It took them a good ten minutes just to get the tie downs undone. And then a lot of arguing about what was the best way to get the tree down off the top of the car and into the house. When the tree wound up falling into the snow at their feet, Dean decided Sam probably had been right. They should have done it his way. But of course, Dean had insisted on doing it _his_ way and now they were both staring down at the tree lying in the snow at their feet.

Sam cursed and Dean strongly considered doing the same.

They exchanged heated glares, then Sam said, "You're gonna have to lean down and at least pick it up enough to give me something to grab."

And Dean really wanted to tell him to do it himself, but he knew better. If Sam attempted to bend down, the tree wasn't going to be the only thing lying in the snow and Dean didn't think he was up to trying to fish his brother out of the snow. So he leaned down and picked up the top end of the tree enough that Sam could get a hold of the strings tying the tree up. Then he leaned down to grab the other end and nearly fell over.

"Hey! Easy." Sam's voice was close and Dean wasn't going to offer a word of complaint about the hand gripping his good arm and steadying him. "You alright?"

Well, other than the stabbing pain in his head and side and the way the world seemed to be turning inside out and back again, he was swell. He swallowed back the nausea. "Did you drop the tree again?"

Sam glared at him, but it wasn't as heated as it had been a moment ago. He didn't let go of Dean's arm as he said, " _You_ dropped the tree before. And, no, I didn't drop it. I leaned it against the car in order to keep you from falling on your face."

"Wasn't gonna fall. And you better not have scratched the paint."

"Seriously?" Sam's voice had an edge to it now. "It's freezing out here. Are you really gonna worry about the paint job right now? Just go inside and I'll bring the tree in."

Dean snorted, pulling away slightly. "I'm fine. You're not gonna be able to-"

"Like _you're_ gonna be able to do anything? You're white as a sheet, man. I can get the tree."

"Just…" Dean fumbled with his good hand to reach the tree, "can we work together on this? Let's just get the damned thing in the house before _either_ of us wind up on the ground."

"Fine."

Sam cautiously reached down and grabbed the top of the tree with Dean. Together, they dragged the tree toward the porch steps. As Sam was about to start up the steps, Dean said, "Wait."

"What now?" Sam sounded irritated. Mostly breathless, but also irritated.

"Gotta...get the…" Dean wasn't any less breathless, "stuff."

"What stuff?"

"The lights. The stuff you…bought. For the tree." Dean leaned against the porch. "I'll go-"

"Stay there." Sam left him holding the tree and went back toward the car. Dean watched him slipping and sliding and really hoped he wouldn't fall.

Staring at him until he reached the Impala and was leaning into the car, Dean relaxed to a degree and looked around at the snowy scene. The sky was a pale pink and filled with huge, fat snowflakes. It was quiet. Peaceful in a way that nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ in their lives had been for a very long time.

There was a part of him that just wanted to stay here, in this moment forever. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sky and felt the snow landing on his overheated skin. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. When he held his breath, he could actually hear the snow falling.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice broke into the peace of the moment and Dean felt his hands on his face. They were as cold as the snowflakes and Dean wanted to push them away. Wanted to tell Sam to get his butt into the house before he wound up with frostbite. But he didn't do either. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he wished Sam would leave him alone so he could retreat back into that perfect moment of peace.

"Dean, please! Come on, don't do this to me!"

Sam sounded scared and all of a sudden very young and Dean usually wanted to start beating up on whatever had made his brother sound that way, but right now, it slowly dawned on him that _he_ was the reason Sam sounded that way. He opened his eyes and stared up into a very familiar, very worried face. Frowning, Dean tried to remember why his eyes had been closed. And then he tried to sort out why he was looking up at Sam. When had that happened?

 _Oh yeah, ever since the brat decided to grow ten feet tall,_ Dean thought unhappily. He never had quite forgotten his shock and complete disbelief the day they'd realized Sam was actually an inch taller than he was. Sam had been beside himself with glee and even Dad had been amused by Sam's excitement.

Dean had thought they were both jerks, but he'd slowly adapted to looking up at his little brother.

Of course, Sam had to add insult to injury by not stopping until he was _three_ inches taller. Dean still hadn't forgiven him for that.

"Sam?" His voice came out as a whisper.

"Yeah, yeah, Dean. I'm right here."

Dean closed his eyes as the pain in his head seemed to double. The cold hands were back on his face and Dean considered punching his brother. But he couldn't get his hands to cooperate. Couldn't get much of anything to cooperate, actually.

"Dean, seriously, you gotta keep your eyes open."

He finally managed to peel his eyes open and blinked up at Sam, realizing for the first time that he was on his back in the snow and Sam was leaning over him. Frowning, he asked, "What happened?"

"You just went over backwards." Sam shook his head, eyes wide. "I got here as fast as I could, but you were already down."

"Well, get me up," Dean said, not liking the look in Sam's eyes. "What?"

"What do you think? You're not exactly a lightweight. It's not gonna be easy to get you back up."

Dean squeezed his eyes closed. The snow was still falling and now he could feel it soaking into his back. He was uncomfortable, but for some reason, he found it difficult to care. Falling asleep didn't sound like a bad plan at all.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was loud in his ear.

Groaning in pain, Dean felt himself pulled up into a half-sitting position. He appreciated not being in the snow, but sitting up made him feel worse. It was taking all his concentration to avoid throwing up in the pretty, white snow.

"We gotta get you inside."

Sam was being so bossy, but Dean's head felt like it was about to explode so he didn't bother to argue. He tried to help, honestly he did.

"Would you _help_ a little?" Sam asked, huffing and puffing.

Dean glared at him, trying to uncross his eyes. He _had_ been helping! Listening to Sam struggling, Dean tried again to get his own feet under him. But there was little he could do. He tried moving his arm and abruptly remembered why _that_ was a bad idea.

An embarrassing gasp of pain ripped from his mouth and Sam stopped his movement. "Dean? Sorry, sorry. We just gotta get you up."

"Sam."

"What?"

"Did you get the bag?"

Sam's eyes widened. And then he just looked pissed. "Are you insane? You're sitting with your butt in the snow and you want to know if I got the bag?"

"Yes," Dean whispered. His head was spinning even though he wasn't moving. "Yes, I do want to know."

"The bag is in the snow. Like you. And the tree."

Dean started to feel bad about all of it. And his head started to hurt even worse. It seemed to be getting heavier by the second and he finally couldn't hold it up any longer. He felt Sam's hands on his back and realized his head was resting on Sam's shoulder.

"Dean, please? I know you're hurtin' but we gotta get you inside."

He wanted to sleep, but knew Sam had a point. He could feel Sam shivering and knew he was hurting too. Trying again, he struggled to get his feet under him. Sam pulled him up and leaned him against the railing on the porch. At first Dean thought it was to allow time for his head to stop spinning, but it dawned on him that Sam needed the break as much as he did.

It took a moment, then they were moving again. Dean's head throbbed with every step he took and he could hear Sam doing his best to muffle his own pained groans.

"You...gotta...get outta...your wet clothes," Sam muttered, voice strained and teeth chattering.

"Not now." Dean didn't sound any less strained and he was wavering despite Sam's assistance. "Need to lay down. Now."

Dean's vision was starting to tunnel by the time they reached the study. He dropped heavily onto the couch and tried but failed to put up a fight when Sam started pulling his coat off. Slumping back, he let his head rest on the couch, shivering and wishing Sam had left him his coat. He wasn't sure what Sam was doing, but he really hoped he was getting a blanket. Instead of paying attention to his brother, Dean started listing to the right.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was calling him persistently.

He groaned and tried to focus on his brother. It might be worth the effort if he could get him to bring a blanket. Forcing his eyes open, he saw that Sam had the sling in one hand and a blanket in the other.

"Don't need that," Dean said, then quickly clarified. "The sling. Don't need it."

"The hell you don't."

And then Sam was forcing the sling onto him without another word and Dean was hurting badly enough that he couldn't do anything to stop him. The best part about the entire situation was that, once the sling was on, Sam dropped the blanket over him. He didn't feel much warmer, but it was a start.

For a few minutes, everything faded out on him and he settled uncomfortably into a place halfway between sleep and awareness. Sam pulled him back in order to feed him some pills and Dean didn't argue.

* * *

Sam straightened with difficulty and stared down at his brother. His heart hadn't stopped beating double time since the moment he'd turned around and found Dean flat on his back in the snow. He hadn't even heard him go down. Getting him out of the snow and into the house had been difficult. Now, looking at him as he sat there, half-conscious, Sam wondered if he shouldn't be taking him straight to the hospital.

He didn't look good.

Sam shook his head. They never should have gone to town for the tree. Dean had a concussion and the exertion had not been good for him. Not that the exertion had been good for Sam, either.

Rubbing his back, he felt the strain of everything he'd just done. The bolts of pain were running down his legs and he really wanted to lie down too. Dean was somewhat settled and it didn't look like he would be moving anytime soon. He looked too uncomfortable to be asleep, or even unconscious, but at least he'd accepted the Tylenol before he'd faded out.

Taking a step forward, Sam glanced out the window. The tree was sitting there getting covered with snow just like the bag of decorations was. He should really go out there and bring it all in. Sighing, Sam stood there for a good five minutes before telling himself just to get it over with since he was still wearing his coat.

The instant the biting cold wind hit his skin, he started to regret his decision, but there was no going back now. At the very least, he could bring the bag of decorations inside. The tree wouldn't get lost under the snow, but he'd never hear the end of it if he lost the decorations under a snow bank.

Limping down the steps, Sam almost slipped and he had an awful vision of himself winding up on his own back in the snow. He'd probably die of hypothermia before Dean would even wake up enough to notice he was missing.

If he would even care.

It took him a horrible, tedious, painful two minutes to find the bag. If he had waited, it really would have been lost till spring. It took another minute of careful maneuvering for him to be able to get down there and pick it up. He almost didn't make it up again, but the thought of freezing to death didn't appeal to him. Neither did the thought of Dean killing him _for_ freezing to death. So he bit his lip and didn't scream even a little.

Well, maybe a little.

Sam clutched the bag in a shaking hand and stared sadly at the Christmas tree as it collected snow. He wanted so badly to pick it up and get it into the house and put the decorations on it and wrap presents to put under it and have everything ready for Dean when he woke up. But none of that was going to happen because there was no hope of him being able to lift the tree on his own and there were no presents this year.

Sam turned his eyes up to the sky and tried to tell himself what he felt on his face was snow melting. But it wasn't.

Blinking a few times, he breathed in the cold air and it made his teeth hurt, but it helped clear his mind a little bit.

They didn't have much. Never had. And this year it seemed like they had even less. Watching the flakes drift in front of his burning eyes, Sam tried to focus on the fact that they did have _something_. They had the only thing that had ever mattered. The only thing they'd always had.

Each other.

One year ago, on a Christmas Eve without snow, Sam had stood outside just like this and stared up at the dark, voiceless sky and let the tears run down his face without shame. Last year, he'd been trying to prepare himself to lose his brother. Trying to figure out how on earth he was going to manage without Dean. How he was going to live without him.

Tried to convince himself that he even _could_ live without his brother.

Right now, 365 days later, he still wasn't sure how he could live without his brother. The awful, awful truth was that he couldn't and he _hadn't_. And he probably never would. Sam brushed his icy fingers over his face. He knew he shouldn't be standing outside this long. The possibility of frostbite crossed his mind, but he ignored it.

What did it matter if his fingers froze when everything else was already frozen? From his heart outwards, he was one solid block of ice that would never thaw. He'd screwed up in every way possible. In so many ways that Dean didn't even know about. Probably in a million ways that _he_ didn't even realize yet.

"Sam!"

He almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of Dean's shout. Sam gasped as pain lanced through him at the surprise. Turning slowly, gingerly, Sam found Dean standing at the top of the steps. He wasn't wearing a coat and looked a lot more concerned than Sam thought the situation warranted.

"Sammy?" Dean repeated, going down one step. "What are you doing?"

Sam stared at him, trying to remember what he'd been doing.

Dean inched forward again and said, "Get in here."

"The tree." Sam could barely get the words out past his chattering teeth. He felt like he was frozen where he stood.

Sam turned away from his brother and looked down at the tree. It was buried in snow and he wondered when that had happened. He frowned when he felt a hand on his arm. Sam turned his head and almost jumped again. Because Dean was suddenly standing in front of him, gripping his shoulder with his right hand. His eyes were wide and he looked like he was freaking out. Sam wasn't sure why. He had the decorations in his hand and the tree was still sort of visible.

"Sam!" Dean's fingers dug into his shoulder, then ran up his neck to his cheek and Sam knew he should probably be able to feel his brother's touch. Dean's eyes widened and he cursed, "Damn it, Sam! You're freezing."

"I'm fine." Sam's teeth were chattering despite his best efforts to disguise it. "Got the decorations."

"You're an idiot." Dean cursed again and pulled on his arm. "Forget the decorations. Come on, come on."

Sam forced himself to move even though he could barely lift his feet. He gritted his teeth as Dean wrapped his arm around his back. Dean pushed on him and he couldn't move that fast.

"Stop." Sam squeezed his eyes closed and planted his feet.

Dean stopped, pressed close to Sam's side. He said urgently, "You can't stop, Sam. We gotta get you warmed up. How long have you been out here?"

He had no idea. Sam opened his eyes and stared at the ground. "I don't know."

* * *

Dean cursed at his brother's admission.

Ever since he'd warmed up a little and the Tylenol had kicked the headache down a notch or two, Dean had arranged himself comfortably on the couch with the remote. He'd been sitting in front of the television watching infomercials for at least half an hour thinking Sam was upstairs moping or sleeping. Instead, Sam had been standing out here, apparently oblivious to the fact that hypothermia was setting in. Dean couldn't believe how stupid he was.

How stupid they _both_ were.

Now was not the time to start that argument, though. He was limited in what he could do since Sam had insisted on tying his left arm down. Dean stared at the steps and wished they were closer. He hadn't even bothered to grab his coat when he'd realized Sam wasn't firing on all cylinders and now he was regretting it. At least Sam had his coat on. Shaking his head, Dean applied gentle pressure to his brother's back and got him moving again.

"The tree," Sam muttered, halting forward movement again just when Dean thought they were finally making progress.

"Forget. The. Tree." Dean was glad they'd made it to the bottom of the steps, because he could push Sam against the rail to help keep him upright. Sam reached up to grab the rail with a shaking hand and Dean realized he didn't even have any gloves on.

Cursing again, he hoped they weren't going to be dealing with frostbite on top of everything else. Urging Sam up the steps, Dean asked, "What were you thinking?"

Sam didn't answer. He just kept stumbling up the steps. They reached the door and Dean shoved Sam into the house and slammed the door behind them.

"Keep moving," Dean said, pushing Sam toward the kitchen.

It looked like Sam would have rather done almost anything else, when Dean pointed him at a chair, he dropped the bag of decorations on the table and gingerly sat down. He hunched in on himself, tucking his hands under his arms and shooting Dean a miserable glance before he lowered his head and stared at the floor. The snow in his hair was melting and dripping onto the hardwood in a growing puddle.

Dean sighed and left him there while he headed for the kitchen counter. He grabbed the cup of coffee he'd poured for himself moments before taking a peek out the window and finding his stupid brother standing outside like a statue. The cup was still relatively hot so he set it in front of Sam.

Sam straightened up a pinch, then froze with a gasp of pain. It took another minute before he could sit up enough to reach out for the cup of coffee. He wrapped both hands around the mug, but didn't take a drink. Dean headed back to the coffee pot and poured himself a mug. Sitting down across from Sam, Dean watched him shivering and not drinking the coffee.

By the time Dean had finished his cup, Sam still hadn't moved an inch.

"Sammy."

Sam didn't say anything, but he made brief eye contact which helped untwist a knot in Dean's stomach. Dean set his cup aside and asked, "Where should we put it?"

"Put what?" Sam asked softly. His teeth weren't chattering any more and he took a sip of what had to be lukewarm coffee by now.

"The tree," Dean said, spinning his cup with his good hand and looking outside at the drifting snow. "I'm thinking the far corner. Front of the window would be nice, but then we'd have to move the couch and I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I feel up to rearranging the furniture."

"Why do you do that?"

Dean frowned, pulling his gaze back to his brother. Sam was staring at his coffee. His hair and coat were wet with melted snow, but at least he'd stopped shivering. Dean asked, "Do what?"

"Call me Sammy."

The knot started to twist back up in his gut as Dean stared at his brother. He should've known that big, bad hunter Sam Winchester wouldn't want that nickname anymore. Pushing himself to his feet, Dean crossed the room and slammed the mug on the counter much harder than he'd intended. He was still trying to come up with an answer for his brother when he heard Sam set his own mug down and stand up. Dean pressed his fingers to his eyes, the headache starting to blossom again.

"You don't have to. I know I'm not him anymore."

Dean spun around when he heard Sam's whispered confession. Sam had his back to him as he leaned against the door frame. He wasn't standing there trying to look tough. His shoulders were slumped and, like a lightning bolt, Dean realized he'd been wrong. It had nothing to do with Sam thinking he was too big and strong for the nickname; he truly felt like he didn't deserve it anymore.

And that was the final straw.

They'd been at each other too much lately and, as angry as he still was, Dean needed to set one thing straight with his stupid, stubborn, little brother. So he crossed the room and grabbed Sam's arm. Spinning him around, Dean saw the shock - the fear - in Sam's eyes and knew the fire in his eyes must be showing.

"Listen to me. I'm sayin' this once. You hear me?"

Sam nodded. The muscles under Dean's fingers tensed and he knew Sam was testing to see if he could pull away. Dean just squeezed until he saw Sam flinch and then he said, "You _are_ him. Always will be. I don't give a crap what _anyone_ or _anything_ says. I don't care what happened for those four months and I don't care what happens in the next four months because one thing isn't gonna change."

"Dean-" Sam started to interrupt, his posture changing as understanding lit his eyes.

"Shut up." Dean cut him off. "Yes, I want to punch you in the teeth at times. Yes, I want to kick your ass about Ruby. And yes, I _will_ kill you if that tree scratched my Baby's paint job."

Sam snorted and the last bit of tension eased out of his shoulders.

Dean fought to keep the smile off his face as he said, "And I'm still pissed at you for that damned iPod. But you're always gonna be my little brother. Nothin' is gonna change that."

If Sam's eyes got a little bright and Dean's throat tightened a bit, neither of them mentioned it.

Letting go of Sam's arm, Dean smacked him gently. "And I can call you whatever I want. So, sorry, but you're stuck with it, Sammy."

Sam nodded, not looking up, but Dean could tell his words - and the unspoken message behind them - had been received loud and clear. He turned till he was standing next to his brother, staring into the study. They hadn't fixed anything. Not really. There was still so much that was going wrong between them. But maybe, just _maybe,_ he'd put one piece of his brother back where it belonged.

Clearing his throat, Sam shifted until his shoulder bumped Dean's good shoulder. He said, "The far corner is good. We can see it from the couch and it isn't in the way of the tv."

Dean grinned. "So that mean you're warmed up enough to go bring the tree inside?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled and met his eyes this time. "And then I'm makin' egg nog."

They headed for the door together as one more piece fell into place.

* * *

 **One more chapter! Will post it tomorrow morning as it covers the end of Christmas Eve and then Christmas Day for the boys. I'm so proud of myself folks, this story is complete lol! It didn't take me a year to finish it haha! This was one of my NaNoWriMo projects. I'll probably start posting the other one (a tag to Red Meat) in February. And for those of you reading "Face Down in the Desert"...chapter 31 is coming soon!**

 **Thank you for reading! All of your reviews are like the best Christmas presents ever! I'll drop you all replies in the next few days!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Merry Christmas! Final chapter! Hope you enjoy the conclusion to this story...and that you enjoy your Christmas!**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 7**_

 _Christmas Eve_

"Do not...don't! Don't drop it!"

"I'm not going to drop it!" Sam shouted back at his brother.

He slipped on the snowy step and landed on his butt on the porch. A shout of pain tore from his mouth and his vision whited out for a few seconds as the shock ran through his body. When he could see again, he was staring at Dean from the opposite end of the Christmas tree.

"Sam?" Dean was panting, but he was holding onto the base of the tree with his right hand like his life depended on it.

Which, if Sam had anything to say about it, it did. If Dean dropped the tree at this point, Sam would kill him. He swallowed hard and said, "I didn't drop it."

Dean laughed. The strain was evident on his face, but he grinned and said, "No, you didn't. You gonna be able to get up?"

Sam lowered his head, trying to control his breathing and the jagged spasms of tearing through his back. He looked back at Dean. "Yeah."

"I don't know about you," Dean said, shifting his weight. He was sweating like a pig despite the winter air and hunched over uncomfortably; still holding onto the tree with only his right hand. "But I'm ready...for a-"

"Drink."

"Yeah. Me too."

Sam nodded."I'm good. Let's go. Let's go."

It took more than one attempt to get back on his feet. Sam's fingers cramped on the railing as he clung to the top of the tree with his other hand. His entire body was shaking - and not just from the cold.

Dean straightened a bit and asked, "Did you get a tree stand?"

"A what?" Sam's eyes widened and he slipped again. _We really should have shoveled the steps._

"A tree stand." Dean huffed as Sam backed up. Hefting the tree with his free hand, Dean inched up the steps. "You know. Holds the tree up."

"No, I don't know. How would I know about tree stands?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "How do...you think...it stands up?"

"A bucket?"

Snorting, Dean shook his head. He was looking worse by the second, but he also looked amused.

Sam was less amused and more worried about his brother keeling over at an inopportune moment. Which would basically be any moment. He sucked in a breath and said, "Shut up and move."

Dean shut up. Probably because he was having as much trouble catching his breath as Sam was. But he moved and that was all Sam could ask for under the circumstances. By the time they were inside the house, they were both so out of breath that neither of them could speak. They didn't stop, though, just dragged the tree into the study.

Once it was over the threshold, Dean let go of his end and stumbled to the couch. He was gasping and looked like he might be sick at any moment. Dropping the top of the tree, Sam leaned against the wall and couldn't stop his slide to the ground. Hands against the wall to slow his descent, he was shaking from the effort and lightheaded from the pain. Closing his eyes, he thumped his head back against the wall.

For several minutes, the only sound was of their wheezing breaths. Sam wished he'd aimed for a chair rather than the floor. Sitting on the hard floor was doing his back no favors.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was hoarse.

He forced his eyes open, teeth chattering as he asked, "What?"

"You alright?"

"No. Are you?"

"No." Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes. He lowered his hand to press against his left shoulder. Sinking a bit deeper into the couch, he grimaced, then looked around the room. "I don't like where you put the tree."

Sam stared at the tree where it lay in the middle of the room and shrugged. "You want it in front of the window?"

"Nah. Let's put it there." Dean closed his eyes and didn't bother to clarify where _there_ was.

"Thought you wanted it in the corner." Sam sighed and closed his eyes too.

"Sam?"

"What?" He forced his eyes open and glanced at his watch. More time had passed than he'd realized. He'd stiffened up and the shivering had died down although his jeans were cold and wet. Despite the chill, now he just felt numb.

"Shouldn't stay there. I don't think I can get you off the floor."

And there was something in Dean's voice that made Sam pay attention. He looked at his brother and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Just great."

He didn't look great. He looked worse than he had ten minutes ago.

"Think maybe I...overdid it."

And that admission told Sam everything he needed to know about how Dean was truly feeling. His heart sped up and he started to push himself to his feet. Not an easy thing to do.

Every movement sent sparks of pain down his legs. When he finally made it to his feet, he had to keep a hand to the wall for a few seconds until he was certain he wasn't going to fall over. It took closer to a minute before his back released enough that he actually felt like he might be able to move.

He stayed where he was as he asked, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe we should...go back to the hospital."

"No."

"You just said you overdid it. You look terrible."

Dean shot him a glare and said, "Yeah? Hate to break it to you, but you're not lookin' so swell yourself. You're movin' like you're a hundred years old."

"Well, if I hadn't had to haul your butt and a freakin' Christmas tree inside, maybe I wouldn't be moving this way." Sam felt the frustration tipping the scale and started to lose his patience. "You need to give it to me straight. Do you need the hospital?"

"No. Just need something for the headache and a big glass of your eggnog." Dean sounded exhausted as he met Sam's eyes and added softly, "I don't wanna fight about it. I don't wanna fight about anything."

Dean closed his eyes and Sam sighed. He didn't want to fight about anything either. Right now, he just wanted to get them both medicated, warm and comfortable. And he wanted to forget about everything except decorating a Christmas tree and eating some good food and enjoying the fact that his brother was alive.

Focus restored, Sam said, "Ok."

"Ok?" Dean peered at him with one eye.

"Yeah. Ok. I don't wanna fight about anything, either. So if you're serious and you're ok, then how about this?" Sam pushed himself off the wall. "How about we eat? You find something crappy to watch."

Dean's stare was a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. There was a hint of hope, too, when he asked, "Then what?"

"Then we put up the tree. Tomorrow's Christmas." Sam held his breath and waited.

"Sounds great." Dean grinned.

Sam returned the grin and felt a little less broken.

* * *

 _Christmas Day_

Dean awakened just after dawn. Wouldn't have if he hadn't rolled the wrong way and landed on his left shoulder. It was a miracle - or a combination of really good drugs and a few too many glasses of his own eggnog - that Sam hadn't awakened at his shout of pain. Gritting his teeth through the worst of it, Dean lay there for a solid ten minutes before deciding he wasn't going to be able to fall back to sleep. So he dragged himself out of bed, through the shower, and into his clothes.

He even put the sling back on.

Heading for the stairs, he paused at the door to the other room. Sam was still dead to the world. Dean stood there for a few minutes watching him sleep and wishing he knew how to fix what was broken between them. Wished he knew how to fix his brother.

His entire life had been spent watching out for his little brother and somehow - by doing just that - Dean had

unwittingly destroyed him. Staring at him now, as Sam slept soundly on his back, head tilted toward the door, Dean could all too easily remember him lying dead on a bare mattress in the aftermath of Cold Oak. He would never - could never - regret what he'd done to bring Sam back. It had been stupid, he'd admit it, but he didn't regret it.

It hadn't seemed selfish at the time but, in retrospect, Dean knew it had been.

By failing to protect him in the first place, Dean had failed him in the worst way possible. Sam had died and Dean hadn't known how to live without him. Couldn't imagine a life without him. So he'd brought him back without any thought to the consequences of his action or how his death would affect Sam.

Now, leaning on the door frame and thinking about everything that had happened since he'd been brought back from hell, Dean had to face reality.

He'd brought Sam back because he couldn't live without him and then he'd died and left Sam on his own _._ Dean had never once anticipated Sam not being able to live without _him_. But now he could see how stupid he'd been.

His entire life had been spent watching out for his little brother. He hadn't paused to think about what would happen to his little brother if he wasn't there _to_ watch out for him. Dean had made a deal to get himself out of his worst nightmare and then he'd stranded Sam in the exact same nightmare.

And now, his brother was neck deep in a darkness that terrified Dean.

Sam shifted in his sleep and Dean crept away from the door before he was discovered.

* * *

Dean sat on the couch, an ice pack to his shoulder and a box of Christmas cookies in his lap. He'd turned the Christmas lights on and was staring at the Christmas tree. Eating a third cookie, he couldn't help but smile as he surveyed the result of their hard work.

It had taken both of them to get the tree upright the previous evening.

Sam had spent nearly half an hour searching in Bobby's attic for the tree stand neither of them had thought to buy. Miraculously, he'd found a rusty one that left the tree a bit wobbly, yet standing. By the time they'd had it standing, Dean had nearly fallen over and Sam dropped him on the couch with an order to _stay put._ After that, Dean had sat slumped on the couch, rubbing his aching shoulder and directing his brother on where to put the lights, how to hang the garland and which branches needed the few ornaments they possessed.

The garland looked a little haphazard and the lights hadn't been arranged perfectly to his specifications, but Dean couldn't complain. Even if there was no tinsel and not a single ornament had been hung below waist level because Sam couldn't bend over that far, it looked great in Dean's opinion.

It was a tree that, to anyone else, might have looked rather pitiful. But to Dean, it was the most beautiful tree he'd ever seen. He'd seen plenty of pitiful trees in his lifetime. The one last year had been pitiful, but it had meant more than any other tree he'd ever had because Sam had done it for him.

This tree, though, had been for _both_ of them and, even if the decorations were a bit sparse and there were no presents underneath, it was lit with the colored lights he loved and it looked perfect.

It reminded him of the tree they'd had the year before Sam had been born. His memories were spotty at best, but he remembered the colored lights and the feeling of happiness and love. What he remembered most about that Christmas, though, was when Mom and Dad had told him he was going to be a big brother in a few months. At the time, he hadn't understood what that meant, but he'd been so excited that even the thought of Santa Claus bringing him presents dimmed in comparison.

And now, here he was. Decades later. Santa Claus long forgotten. Parents both dead. The world falling apart around him. The feeling of emptiness and sorrow swept over him like a wave and tears prickled in his eyes as he stared at the scene before him. The colored lights blurred and he had to blink back the tears.

"Dean?" A soft voice from the entrance way called him. Sam limped slowly into the room, carrying two coffee mugs. His hair was a disaster and he still looked half asleep and quite possibly hungover, but there was no disguising his concern when he asked, "Are you alright?"

Dean stared at his little brother. The past few weeks, months, flashed through his mind. He thought about all the times recently when he'd wondered if his brother was the same person he'd left behind in New Harmony, Indiana. Dean had come back and it hadn't taken him long at all before he'd begun to wonder. Angels and demons were telling him different things and he didn't know what to think any more. Didn't know who to believe. And he didn't know what to do.

But right now, on Christmas morning, in the silence of Bobby's house, with the snow falling softly outside and Christmas lights sparkling on their very own Christmas tree, all Dean could see was his little brother.

The one he remembered.

The one he'd sold his soul for.

The one he missed.

The one he loved.

Dean smiled.

"Yeah, Sammy. I'm alright."

 _~The End~_

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed! Trust me, I wanted to keep going. I didn't really want to leave it here (although it did feel like a perfect ending). But I was determined to keep this short and sweet lol! ;) I also wanted SO badly to solve all their problems. Season 4 was a truly difficult, heart-breaking season. I love a lot of it, though, because of the agonizingly beautiful struggle these boys went through that year. Dean-feeling so shattered from hell and feeling so unworthy of being brought back. And Sam-feeling just as shattered as his brother, and drowning in his mistakes while still telling himself he was doing the right thing. Heartbreaking. Watching them be torn apart by opposing forces when all they ever wanted was to be left alone and just be brothers. Anyway! I wanted to solve all these issues, but I try really hard to keep my stories slotted right into canon...so i can make things a little better here and there, but can't magically solve all their problems. :(**

 **Someday I swear I'm going to write the story I REALLY want to write. The one were I sit them down, bang their heads together and make them TALK TO EACH OTHER! lol! :)**

 **Anyway! Really hope you all have enjoyed this little Christmas story. Have a blessed Christmas!**


End file.
